


mild-mannered catastrophes.

by lamentconfiguration (violetlightlines)



Category: Hellraiser & Related Fandoms, Hellraiser (Comics), Hellraiser (Movies), The Scarlet Gospels
Genre: (except this is hellraiser and there's no such thing as canon), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Comfort/Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Post-Judgement (sort of) human!Pinhead, Sickfic, Whump, can't believe i'm fucking posting this garbage, i'm pretty sure i wrote this to deal with my own phobias [yeehaw], if you know me don't read this kthxbye, self-indulgent AU sickfic nonsense, the tone of this is all over the goddamn place
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2020-10-27 22:56:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 36,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20768327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violetlightlines/pseuds/lamentconfiguration
Summary: this is just insomnia-fuelled garbage. :-))--"hush," a voice said, and she cried.





	1. the storm.

**Author's Note:**

> hey there, sorry you clicked on this! massive tw for any emetophobics from here on out. it is sickfic, after all.
> 
> where does this take place in canon? fuck if i know. in a drunken stupor, i took hellraiser: judgment out into a back alleyway, beat it up, and looted its pockets for loose change. i don't even remember how the movie ends.
> 
> whoops.

Rain sluiced against the windows of the apartment complex, rattling them with a low din. It was five in the morning, and they were in the centre of the storm. The light that filtered through was grey-green and just as pale and watery as the world outside. It cast long shadows through the darkened bedroom, the small open plan kitchenette, the bare living room. Fluorescent light cut through the gloom like a knife. Kirsty Cotton, on her knees before porcelain, hadn't had time to close the door. She'd hardly had time to turn the light on. She'd awoken with thoughts of Frank in her head again, skinless and dripping, his fingers pressed against her skin. Her legs had only barely carried her to the bathroom before she'd collapsed. She heaved now, wet splattering the sides of the bowl, rain spattering the windowpanes, blood splashing across a wooden floor --

Another wave of nausea coursed through her at the memory, and bile rose in her throat. She tried to choke it back and stifle a strangled sob, but both broke free. She whimpered, her eyes pricking sharply. It had been so vivid, and was so vivid still...

Something rough grazed the back of her neck, and she stiffened. Calloused fingertips pulled her hair back out of her face, and she convulsed at the unfamiliar touch, bringing up another wave of sick. She gasped for ragged breaths and gagged and spat. Another hand was at her back now, rubbing gentle circles. She'd tell herself later that the tears had been involuntary, just a biological reaction to her sickness. Certainly they hadn't been from fear, and they absolutely were not brought on by the sudden, visceral realisation that she'd been so touch-starved for so long.

"Hush," a voice said, and she cried.

There hadn't been anything but bile for her to cough up to begin with, but now her churning stomach was completely empty. She dry-heaved still, fighting to breathe. She couldn't vomit up the memories, though, and even as the dreams faded from her head, the misery remained. "Are you alright?" asked the voice, deep and coloured with concern. She sniffled, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, and sat up.

"I'll be alright," she managed, and turned around.

She'd forgotten that he was there, and for half a second she thought she was going to burst into tears, panic rising in her chest. But his eyes, brilliant blue, were kind, his mouth tight with worry, and she exhaled shakily. The panic dissipated but sweat still prickled on her palms. She searched her head for his name but came up empty.

"Forgive my saying so, but you don't look alright," he said. She oriented herself so she was facing him completely, and the hand that had been holding her hair back moved to her forehead. His jaw clenched; she felt sorry for him, the back of his hand up against her clammy skin. Of course she was quite a sight, having just vomited, her eyes still bleary with restless sleep.

Kirsty let her shoulders slump. "'M fine." She was lightheaded, and he was looking at her with a curious concern.

"You're very warm," he cautioned.

He was English, she realised belatedly. There was something nagging at her mind about that. She wished he'd leave her be, to spare her further embarrassment and let her sprawl along the cool tile floor.

He sighed and withdrew his hand to brush hair off of her forehead. Strands stuck, damp and sweaty, and his touch lingered. He closed his eyes, his face unreadable, and recognition clicked within her.

At first she wanted to scream, that panic bubbling back up inside her, and her heartbeat quickened. There was nothing around her that she could use as a weapon -- even her toothbrush, up on the counter, was too far out of reach from her perch on the floor. But memories of their deal came back to her -- those five vile souls -- and then she remembered how she'd found him, and everything clicked into place.

"Just got out of bed," she rasped.

He'd studied all of her micro-expressions, watching shame and fear and bitterness flicker across her pale face with remarkable speed. "And so did I. Still, I'm afraid you're abnormally warm."

"'M gross," she admitted, unable to meet his eyes. Her t-shirt was plastered to her skin, her cheeks tear-streaked, bile drying rapidly at the corner of her mouth. She cast a glance towards the shower. "Just bad dreams, that's all. Let me get cleaned up?"

"Of course." He guided her to her feet and stepped back. His fingertips seemed to leave sparks on her skin as he pulled away, burning into her, leaving her twice as desperate for human touch. Then again, she reminded herself, he didn't exactly fit the 'human' bill.

She nodded her thanks, then glanced just beyond him expectantly. He took the hint and left, closing the door behind him and sealing away the fluorescent light.

* * *

Out in the grey-green dark, the storm still raging around them, he swallowed his uncertainty. There wasn't much for him to do in Kirsty's apartment, but he busied himself the best he could. Best to occupy his hands to keep the leering thoughts at bay. With a soldier's precision, he made the bed, tidying the covers that Kirsty had so hastily thrown off. He'd been only half-asleep when she'd started out of slumber and leapt to her feet. It was hard to sleep here, laying down in this soft, strange form, clothed in black cotton castoffs from the late Trevor's wardrobe. Kirsty had kept them for sleeping in, and they smelled of her. He'd showered since then, washed the dried blood and street grime off of his pinkish white skin, but the scent of iron and incense still clung to him. He wasn't sure if he'd ever be rid of it completely, or if it was just an inherent part of him now. Regardless, it made him miss home; a great octahedral hole yawned in his chest, the absence of its siren call deafening.

He fixed them each a glass of water, and was just setting them down on the counter top when he heard a loud thump. His head snapped up. He'd know that sound anywhere; he'd heard it thousands of times. There was nothing quite like the sound of a body hitting the floor, dead weight colliding with solid surface.

He knocked before entering, but waited only a second for a lack of response and no more. The air was thick with steam, the soft floral scent of Kirsty's shampoo strong now. He threw aside the shower curtain, stripping off his borrowed t-shirt to keep it from getting soaked, and found exactly what he'd anticipated. She was bent awkwardly on the floor, eyes closed, suds still in her hair. He crouched down beside her, flinching at the boiling water, and checked her pulse. By the looks of it, her shoulder had taken the brunt of the fall. Her eyes fluttered open, too-bright but quickly focusing. Kirsty lifted her head with a groan. She'd have some pretty nasty bruising across her shoulder and back and on her ribs, but her head seemed miraculously okay. Still, he had to check. He sighed and held his hands in front of her.

"Kirsty, I need you to look at me."

She was shaking now and whined a petulant refusal.

"I need you to follow my finger with your eyes. Can you do that for me?"

"It's cold," she whimpered, but did as he asked.

He sighed and turned down the temperature. The shower handle had been cranked all the way to the left. "Of course you passed out, running a fever like that and taking a shower this hot..." He shook his head. "Come now, let's get you out of here." He lifted her up to a proper sitting position, legs bent in front of her like a rag doll. She was shaking rather violently now, her teeth chattering. The sound reminded him of his Gash, and for a moment he was lost in thought.

"'M n-naked," she protested, crossing her arms in front of her and wincing as she did so.

With the slightest of smiles, he ran a hand through her hair, rinsing the shampoo out of it. "It has been my duty for the past century to know the intricacies of mortal flesh. Yours is nothing I haven't seen before."

"Oh."

* * *

He carried her out bridal-style, trailing water behind them. He'd left his shirt discarded on the floor, but his pants were still soaked. Rivulets ran down his arms, as though they'd just emerged from the storm still raging on outside.

She was thin -- too thin, he thought, her bony frame reminiscent of those gaunt sinners left to starve in the trenches of Pyratha for all eternity -- and that made her light. When he set her down on the couch, it was not because he was tired of carrying her, but for convenience's sake. She was already covered in a thin sheen of sweat, mumbling incoherencies into the cushions.

He retreated back into the bedroom reluctantly. Inflicting suffering was his expertise, not relieving it. Every soldier may have received the standard medical training, but that was a lifetime ago and had been more applicable to packing gunshot wounds than fev--

He saw the past through a dark and clouded mirror. For a heart-wrenching moment, he was back before the grim tableau of the Hanging Tree, the pain of his injuries pulsing in time to his heartbeat, the exquisite beauty of all that death bringing tears to his eyes, and he was turning, running away, suddenly consumed by fear and desire and need, unsure if he was running to or running from...

Kirsty coughed from the other room, and it broke him free from his recollections. On the nightstand stood a small army of pill bottles, and he inspected them now. Olanzapine, quetiapine, aripiprazole, sertraline, lamotrigine, lithium... All prescribed to one Kirsty Cotton, and meant to keep delusions of demons at bay. Meant to keep him away, he realised, and set down the bottle. It rattled. Nothing, he noted, that might ease her pain. Just water would have to do, then, until he could ask her for help. How it killed him that he knew so little here.

He ran his hand over his face, marvelling at the scarified lattice, just recently healed, and steeled himself to face this world. This world, with all its unknowns…

* * *

The oppressive dark of the watery sky had started to pale now as the sun, obscured by thick clouds, rose at last. It was with some difficulty that he convinced Kirsty to sit up and drink. She'd first refused his offer, and then insisted that she could hold the glass herself, but her hands were slick and shaking, and he had to steady her and guide the cup to her lips. She'd always been headstrong and independent, but now it was a hindrance rather than an asset.

"I'm cold," she repeated when she was done.

He pried the glass from her hands and set it down on the floor. "You're overheating."

"Wrong." She crossed her arms around her, pulling her knees up to her chest in an attempt at modesty. "I'm cold. May I have a blanket? Or some clothes? Please?"

The Hell Priest, disgraced, now relegated to the unlikely caretaker of his most elusive victim, pressed the back of his hand to her forehead. She was still burning up. "I can get you clothes," he conceded, "but it's for the best that you forgo the blanket."

Kirsty huffed and unfolded herself, pushing his hand away. "Then I'll get the damn blanket myself."

She struggled to rise from the couch and got to her feet, swaying. He caught her arms, steadying her, and tried to push her back down. She wrangled herself out of his grasp, taking advantage of his surprise to shake him off, kicking the glass over in the process. It didn't shatter, but it rolled, and while he went to go pick it up, she marched past him into the bedroom. Righting the glass, he caught a glimpse of her from behind. Already, great indigo splotches were blossoming across her back and shoulder. They reminded him of storm clouds, beautiful in their darkness, before they were quickly obscured by the entire queen-sized duvet, which she'd ripped off of the bed and shrouded herself in. The weight of it, combined with her exhaustion, was enough to send her to the floor, legs folding beneath her. He rushed to her side, willfully ignoring how she'd ruined his handiwork.

Weary blue eyes met fever-bright, defiant brown ones. "What am I going to do with you?"

"I'm still cold," she said plaintively, lower lip quivering. Tears, he realised, were starting to well up in those eyes. "Why am I still cold?"

He pulled the duvet back from her head, wiping at her eyes with the pad of his thumb. "No tears, please," he murmured.

"It's a waste of good suffering," she finished, cracking a wry smile.

"Precisely. Now, do you think you'll be able to dress yourself?" He raised an eyebrow at her, or rather, he would've if he'd had any eyebrows to raise. He wondered idly if they'd grow back, now that he was human again, or if perpetual cenobitic hairlessness was part of the deal.

She scoffed. "'M not a child, you know."

"Really? I'd not have guessed. If you believe yourself to be so self-sufficient in your state, then so be it." He stood up straight. "I'm going to make some breakfast. Do you think you'll be able to eat it?"

She blinked at him. "You can cook?"

He narrowed his eyes playfully. "I can certainly try."

Pulling the duvet more tightly around herself, more determined than ever, she rose and staggered over to the dresser. The Hell Priest had backed off and now just watched. He was extraordinarily patient, yes, but if wrangling Kirsty Cotton was so futile, the time had come to switch tactics. If she was going to insist on worsening her condition, perhaps she'd learn a lesson. He could just exist as damage control.

She leaned against the dresser, the exertion triggering a coughing fit. In between choked breaths, she shooed him off: "S-stop -- hckh \-- looking, perv."

Moderately amused, he did as she asked and made his way back to the kitchenette. Opening the fridge yielded only disappointment -- there were a handful of condiments and a single egg remaining. A quick investigation of the cabinets revealed them to be equally as barren. It was no wonder that she was so thin.

"Kirsty," he called, finding her struggling into a pair of grey sweatpants and a black mohair sweater, "I do believe I'll have to go out to the shops. Will you be alright alone?"

"Mmph," she said, pulling the sweater over her head and sinking to the floor. Back over and around her went the duvet. "Mmhmm. Wallet's on the table. Just--" She broke off, coughing. "Just take the cash. Couple hundred should be enough. Keys are on the counter..." She peered out of the little duvet fortress she'd made for herself, inspecting him as if for the first time. "Buy yourself some clothes, too."

Realising rather suddenly that he was still shirtless, he nodded towards the dresser. "Did Trevor leave behind anything else upon his departure?"

"Should be a pair of jeans in there," Kirsty murmured, gradually leaning forward. "Covered in paint, though, 'cause they're for..." She yawned. "For painting, 'cause I do that sometimes... Bottom drawer."

As promised, they were there, faded blue spattered with red and black. He only got as far as hooking a finger into the waistband of his pyjama pants when Kirsty admonished him.

"Don't change here. I don't wanna see that."

He frowned at her, but obediently snuck into the bathroom. His shirt was there, anyway.

There were a surprising number of bills in Kirsty's wallet. A couple hundred, indeed, he mused. Her attempts to live a transient lifestyle had left her here in this pre-furnished apartment with several wads of cash on hand at all times. This he snuck into the pocket of Trevor's jeans, along with the keys. He was about to head out the door when an idea struck him, and he went back to the sparsely furnished fridge. There, in the icebox, was a tray of ice cubes. This he brought to her, setting it before her like an offering to an altar. "Suck on these," he ordered. "I expect to see them all gone by the time I return."

She pouted but finagled an ice cube out of the tray with shaking fingers, and popped it into her mouth.

"Good," he purred, and surprised himself by pressing a chaste kiss to her forehead, cool lips to burning skin. When he pulled away, she'd closed her eyes. Her face was flushed red, her rapidly-drying hair frizzy from the humidity outside.

How perfectly human she was.

"Take care," he murmured, and closed the door behind him.

* * *

The rain had not let up any by the time he set off down the street, and were it not for the whipping wind he would've longed for an umbrella. He shielded his eyes to no avail -- there was hardly anything to be seen in the dreary torrential haze, save for the onward rush of the odd car's bright headlights. He was grateful that Kirsty lived in the city's centre, and he clung tight to the sides of buildings, trying to take refuge beneath their meagre awnings as he pushed on. In retrospect, he ought to have asked for directions to the nearest store, but he'd been too distracted by Kirsty's condition to plan that far ahead.

Waiting for the light to change at a crosswalk, the corner of his mouth quirked upward. There'd been no use in trying to keep his shirt dry when rescuing Kirsty from that broiling self-inflicted hell of the shower. He'd not intended to heed Kirsty's request that he find himself something else to wear while out this morning, lest he leave her alone for too long, but perhaps he'd find himself a coat after all.

* * *

Laying down on the floor, swaddled in the duvet, quivering still with a rapidly melting ice cube nestled under her tongue, there was little for Kirsty to focus on but last night's nightmares or the queasiness in the pit of her stomach. Too tired to cope with the visceral, scarlet imagery that sought unbidden purchase in her thoughts, she chose to focus on her nausea instead, feeling each drop of cold water slide down her oesophagus and settle in her churning stomach, spreading a strange mix of wintry chill and unbearable heat spiraling through her, pyrogens at war with her system.

The room around her was spinning, like some sort of twisted carnival ride, and she dug her nails deep into the carpet for stability. None came, though, and before she knew it, watery bile was rising in her throat. She made a hasty dive for the wastebasket in the corner of the room, swallowing desperately, and only just barely made it. She moaned, flopping to the floor. There was no grace in the manoeuvre, and with the duvet dragged out behind her, the world still veering about in wild circles, she cried herself into a fitful sleep.

* * *

The cashier at Walmart had seen a great many things in his few short months of employment, but he had never seen anything quite like this before.

He was not being paid enough to ask questions, though, and he held his tongue when the bald, disfigured man before him fished out a sheaf of fifty-dollar bills from the pocket of his too-tight jeans. He was bedraggled, dripping with rain, and seemingly oblivious to the odd assortment of items he'd stacked on the conveyor belt. He'd gathered up all the items in his arms, cartless and basketless, and deposited them on the conveyor belt with a great deal of care. While the man eyed the chip-and-pin machine with what seemed to be suspicion, the cashier scanned away.

Two different brands of paracetamol. That's right, thought the cashier. The flu had been going around as of late. Hopefully the man before him was just stocking up, not infected and actively contagious. He made a note to go on break and scrub the hell out of his hands at the earliest opportunity.

A carton of eggs. A bag of apples. A loaf of bread. Instant coffee. All frugal generic-brand items. Funny, for someone who waved around cash like that. The man pulled his attention away from the chip-and-pin machine long enough to track the coffee's movement as it was scanned and bagged, gazing upon it with a sort of humbling reverence. Alright then, the cashier decided. A caffeine addict.

A medium black trench coat, one of the buttons already loose in standard Walmart-quality fashion. A pack of black v-neck shirts. Socks and underwear; the man didn't so much as flinch when the cashier handled these. Black jeans, stiff and unpleasant to the touch. And, curiously enough, a thin floor-length black skirt in a large size, left over on clearance from summer sales. He wrangled the hanger off of it and folded it with caution, hoping that the man had a wife he was bringing this home to. He certainly couldn't imagine the tall, imposing figure before him dressed in this, even if the sizes matched up with his other purchases.

Well. Who knows? Times were changing, after all.

An umbrella. Much too little, much too late.

A four-inch Spyderco hunting knife, sealed away in its protective box.

Normally, he'd have to card for this, but the cashier took one look at the imposing creature before him and just swallowed and scanned it through.

His voice cracked as he read the total aloud. If the customer noticed, he said nothing, just stared at him with piercing blue eyes and handed over the money. The cashier tested each bill under the silent and watchful eye of the man, fumbling with the counterfeit detection pen. It was with great relief that he counted out the change and handed over the receipt. The man slung all seven plastic bags over his forearms and strode off out into the rain without a word.

The world took all kinds, but if the cashier had to interact with customers with such a formidable aura on a regular basis, he was going to have to ask for a raise.

* * *

He trudged up the stairs, avoiding the elevator despite his cargo, and threw open the door to the apartment, the grocery bags heralding his arrival with a rustling plastic chorus. He dropped them all, though, including the one with the eggs, when he saw Kirsty. She was very pale and very wan, hands cupped over her mouth, a wastebasket pulled beside her, convulsing. The acrid scent of bile was old and contained -- she just dry-heaved now, coughing, curled in on herself in the foetal position. The queen-sized duvet draped half over her positively dwarfed her, making her lithe frame look exceptionally small. Half the ice cubes had been left in the tray and were now melted in a puddle on the carpet. Urgently, he brought the glass of water he'd set aside for himself earlier to her, kneeling and petting her hair and trying to coax her into breathing properly. She just shook her head, sucking in a rasping breath once the dry-heaving had stopped.

"C-can't keep it down," she whispered, her eyes bloodshot.

His heart, all too human, sank in his chest. "I know," he said, holding the glass before her. "But you need to try."

"I'm s-sorry," she whimpered, pointing to overturned ice cube tray. "I tried, I really did."

"I know. I know you did. Thank you."

She burst into a fit of tearless sobbing, burying her face in his lap. Her body had no more tears left to give, her lips dry and cracked, the sweat saturated in her sweater already old, but anguish and frustration made her go through the motions of crying. How quickly she'd deteriorated.

"Will you listen to me now, Kirsty?" he asked, his tone solemn even as he stroked her hair.

She wailed her surrender into damp, acrylic-stained denim, and he let her cry until she started gagging again. He wrapped her hair around his hand -- not forcefully, but sternly enough to make her stiffen -- and she tilted her head up towards him.

"There's nothing left for your body to expel," he cautioned. "You need to stop trying."

He let go of her hair, and she strained to get herself under control. It wasn't easy, with the vertigo and hysteria which threatened to engulf her, but eventually she took her lower lip between her teeth and nodded, eyes closed, as still as she could be while quavering.

"Good," he hummed. "Now, try to drink some of this. and wait here."

Once she'd grasped hold of the cup, he returned to the entranceway and rifled through the shopping bags. All but one of the eggs had blessedly survived the fall. The paracetamol had been packed in with the bread, and he had to go looking for the hunting knife in order to get the medicine out of its complex packaging. If Kirsty saw the blade glint from across the apartment, she made no indication of it. He tucked it into his pocket, a heavy and comfortable weight against his outer thigh.

Kirsty had managed several shaky sips. "Here," he said, holding out two tablets in the palm of his hand. She nodded and took them both at once, breath hitching as she choked them down. He guided the rim of the glass back to her lips, and she drank obediently.

"This was a foolish idea," he chided, fingering the hem of her sweater. "You'll need to take it off." She nodded weakly and, defeated, let him strip her, leaving her topless and shivering in the green-grey light. Her nipples were hard; gooseflesh prickled up her arms as her body desperately tried to shake itself back to what it mistakenly believed was the new baseline temperature. Good. She was doing better already. He'd have fetched her a more appropriate shirt if it weren't for the chance that she might puke on it, and so shirtless she remained. She was pliable in his arms, too tired to voice a complaint as he reclaimed the duvet from her and scooped her up off of the floor. She snuggled her head into his chest on reflex, limbs falling limp in his grasp. Back onto the softness of the couch she went, this time with the wastebasket beside her.

She was asleep again before he even let go. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (what if i imagined the end of judgment and he isn't even human at the end?????? i refuse to rewatch that movie sober so i have no idea)
> 
> anyway, expect another chapter next week, probably. whether you want it or not, my fingers insist on typing this garbage. fun times.


	2. twilight.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which kirsty makes some progress and the hell priest demonstrates his culinary prowess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is kinda just domestic fluff now. what the fuck?
> 
> i'm still not sure why i'm writing this.

Coughing, she woke up to the smell of very burnt toast.  
  
Her voice was hoarse when she first called out, brainfog and dehydration making her tongue thick and lame in her mouth. "Hello?"

  
"Ah. You're awake," came the low, rumbling reply. "I'd hoped you'd sleep for longer. How are you feeling?" Kirsty, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, could see the kitchenette from her position on the couch, and in it stood her waking nightmare, darkly-clad and pale, bent over a thick column of black smoke.

  
"You're gonna set off the smoke detector like that," she mumbled, wrinkling her nose. "The fuck did you do?"

  
He'd rarely ever smiled at her and hadn't been doing so before, but now any trace of cordial good-humour was gone from his voice, the scarred laugh lines around his eyes disappearing as he waved at the smoke. "I'll take your quips as a sign that you're doing well."

  
Kirsty buried her face in the plush arm of the couch and groaned. She certainly didn't feel _well_, but she had to admit that his obnoxious doting on her had helped some. "Thought you said you could cook."  
"I only said that I could _try_. It's been rather a long time, you see."

  
She dragged herself upright, head swimming, the couch relinquishing its hold on her sweaty skin reluctantly. She'd meant to get up to commandeer the stove from him, but the movement had sent an unpleasant twinge of awareness down to her aching bladder, and she rushed off into the bathroom instead. Having relieved herself, she washed her hands, splashing cool water onto her face. She was recognisably too warm now, no longer shivering with false chill, and, regrettably, she had to admit that he had been right.

  
The Kirsty in the mirror looked like death, all too-prominent cheekbones, dark circles, and waxy reddish skin. She could see the bruise along her shoulder had deepened in colour, and shifting her arm sent a tender, dull ache coursing through her. She brushed her teeth with her non-dominant hand, then, trying to clear the fuzzy, bitter taste from her mouth, and choked as she spat out the toothpaste, a fit of coughing wracking her chest. She gripped the sink with two hands until it was over, willing her body to cooperate before he heard her.

  
He. What was she to call him, anyway? He certainly wasn't Captain Elliot Spencer anymore, and "The Cold Man" wasn't quite so fitting, not now while he was burning toast in her kitchen. What the fuck had he done, anyhow? Light it on fire?

  
Either the kitchen disaster had been contended with or she took priority over it, as he knocked on the bathroom door. She hadn't heard him walk over to it. Either her coughing was too loud, and had masked the sound of his footsteps, or he had retained the silent, regal grace of a Cenobite.

  
"Are you alright?" he called, something approaching genuine concern in his voice. Oh, how his humanity had changed him, she thought wryly. Before, he'd have enjoyed her suffering, wouldn't he?

  
She nodded, then, and, once it had dawned on her after a few feverish heartbeats that he couldn't possibly have seen that, she stifled a cough long enough to answer. "Yeah, I'll be good in a moment."  
Kirsty hunted for a hair tie while she waited for him to break down the door. But it wasn't until she'd located one and tied her hair out of her face that she heard the gentle scrape of a spatula against a much-abused pan and realised that he'd accepted her reply.

  
Her body still felt so heavy, and her throat burned, but the queasiness had abated. She drew handfuls of impure water to her mouth, taking advantage of her seemingly settled stomach to drink. Once she'd drank as much as she dared, she emerged from her bathroom sanctuary to face the blue-eyed horror and his abominable cooking.

  
The smoke had cleared as he'd turned off the heat. Now, he appeared to be attempting to scrape very burned breadcrumbs off of the bottom of a pan. Who pan-fries toast? she wondered, watching in amusement as he dropped the spatula and rushed her, silently checking her temperature. The back of his hand was warm from his proximity to the stove, and she pointed this out. He scowled.

  
"You'll have to wait on toast or eggs, but you're welcome to an apple."

  
"I sure hope I am," she said, pursing her lips, "given that they were purchased with my money."

  
He let his fingertips slide down the side of her face. "And your generosity is most appreciated, Miss Cotton. Now eat."

  
She snorted but sat down at the kitchenette island compliantly. He set down a plate of cored apple slices before her, and she gave him a bemused look. What was she, a child? She hoped he was aware that she only had two plates. She'd only needed two plates for a while, living alone after the incident that brought Trevor to a timely end. "Forbidden fruit from the Devil himself?" she asked, leaning on her arm. "Never thought temptation would come in bite-sized pieces."

  
"That's not funny," he chided, turning his back to her. The toast, he decided, was a lost cause. This pan would have to be properly scrubbed before he could try again.

  
"Really? I thought it was pretty clever." she asked, biting into a slice of apple. It was sweet; she hadn't realised how hungry she'd been before she tasted it, and now she was all too aware of how long it'd been since she'd last eaten. Days? Food was the sort of thing that had a tendency to slip her mind. No wonder she'd gotten sick. Starvation and sleep-deprivation the likes of which she inflicted upon herself was a one-way ticket to a compromised immune system.

  
How long had it been since _he'd_ eaten? she wondered. Had he eaten at all since becoming human again? She'd taken an unusually wrong turn the other night -- perhaps she'd been incubating illness already, given the magnitude of her mistake -- and wound up in the grimy bowels of the city. She'd found him there, eyes wide, wandering, face coated in dried blood, his black coat ragged, almost unrecognisable in his misery. Certainly, if it hadn't been for the old wounds on his face, she wouldn't have given him a second glance. But she had, and, recognising something in those blue eyes, had quickened her pace.

  
"Kirsty," he'd whispered, voice soft with amazement and cracked with thirst.

  
She'd turned around, heels clicking on the pavement, dread rising within her as she faced him.

  
In that moment when their eyes met, she knew she'd had no choice but to bring him home.

  
The first night had been awkward. She'd relegated him to sitting on the couch, coaxing him out of his tattered coat and immediately binning that nasty thing. He seemed to be in a state of shock, fallen so far from unholy grace, and for an hour she feared he'd grown catatonic, just sitting there, staring off into space.

  
But eventually she'd wrangled him into the shower, and the shock seemed to wash off with the dust of the city, both swirling down the drain and leaving him clean and afresh, as though he had been absolved of his sins and his shame. When he emerged, dressed in old pyjamas of Trevor's, he'd seemed a whole new man, managing to radiate a sort of dark self-assured certainty that could only have come from a Cenobite. For a moment, Kirsty had questioned if she'd made the right decision in taking him home.

  
She'd thrown out the rest of his oddly civilian clothes after that, all but his boots, and decided that he was reliant enough on her here that she was safe. He may have been larger than her, but he was weaponless and isolated. And he'd saved her before, multiple times.

  
Yes, she decided, she must've been feverish to begin with. There was no other explanation for why she'd let him sleep in her bed with her, rather than on the couch. It was a perfectly good couch, after all. Perhaps she'd just not been thinking clearly.

  
Nothing had come of that night. For all his overt sexuality, he had come off as surprisingly asexual to her, just laying beside her, ramrod-straight, staring at the ceiling late into the night.

  
Perhaps that was why it had shocked her so when he'd sprung into action the next morning. She'd been doubting his ability to readjust to human life -- and now, here he was, standing in her kitchen, trying to make breakfast.

  
She pushed the plate away from her, a little more than half of the apple left. "Rest is yours," she said, letting her head slip from her hand, resting her cheek against the counter top. "Unless you don't want to share."

  
He turned to look at her, tilting his his head. If he was irritated with her decision, she couldn't tell. Mostly, he just seemed perplexed. She sighed. His face had always been too impassive, too difficult to read, and now wasn't any different. "You're done?" he asked.

  
Kirsty nodded, closing her eyes. "Mm, yeah. Sorry." Hunger still gnawed at her, reawakened by the breaking of her fast, but she recognised that eating any more probably wasn't in her best interest, not unless she wanted to be sick again. She'd manage what she could handle, and no more.

  
"There's no need to apologise," she heard, and the gentle weight of his hand met her head, stroking her hair softly, his palm lingering on her forehead. His attempt to check her temperature surreptitiously was not nearly as covert as he probably believed it to be. The motion was still relaxing, though, and she found the tension in her body melting away, her head growing heavy. She'd almost drifted off to sleep when she heard a crunch.

  
"Are you actually eating those?" She cracked open an eyelid. She couldn't see his face at this angle, but sure enough, one of the leftover apple slices was missing from her plate. "Oh. You probably shouldn't. Don't want to get you sick, too."

  
"Mm," he said, mouth full, and she watched pale fingers pick up another one.

  
She giggled at the absurdity of it -- this great creature, once demonic, now happily munching on fruit. There was some quip she could make about the forbidden fruit again, she was sure of it, but it eluded her. She just closed her eyes and laughed, shaking with mirth until her jagged laughter turned into jagged coughing, and she quite nearly fell off her chair.

  
"That's quite enough of that," he said, and then his arms were around her and she was airborne. She didn't struggle, the way she might've years ago. Instead, she just let him scoop her up and nuzzled her head against his chest, choking back coughs. She whined when he started to set her down, but the sound came out as more of a wheeze. He tutted at her when she grabbed fistfuls of his shirt, desperately trying to cling onto him, and he wound up bent over her on the couch, her arms extended, her fingers still ensnared in black cotton. "This is rather impractical," he mused.

  
Was it the touch starvation that made her so reluctant to let go? She released him before he could order her to do so, and immediately curled in on herself, pressing her arms into her bare chest.  
"Oh," She opened her eyes. "I still need a shirt."

  
The faintest shadow of a smile flickered across his face. "Would you like me to get it for you?"

  
Kirsty sighed, running a hand over her face. "I've got it. Take care of yourself. You've spent --" Her breath caught in her throat. "-- so long taking care of me. I'll be fine now." She unfurled herself and wobbled to her feet, staring the former Cenobite in the face. His eyes were soft, glittering with something she almost would've called affection. He had five inches on her, and she was a shaky, red-faced, half-naked mess, but she still gave him her most intimidating glare. "You'll exhaust yourself with your concern. And you were out on the streets yesterday! You're the one who should be resting." But he smelled of iron and incense and petrichor and burnt toast, all soft eyes, and she gave up trying to be stern. She just offered him a gentle, weary smile and staggered away in pursuit of a shirt.

* * *

He was sitting on the couch when she returned, hands folded in his lap, and she all but collapsed next to him, panting from the exertion. She might've been able to put on a good show, but her body was still weak, ravaged by fever.

  
"And which one of us was it who should be resting?" he asked, all dry humour.

  
She narrowed her eyes at him but said nothing. He stared back at her, several beats of tense silence stretching between them as she struggled to read his unblinking expression.

  
Eventually she exploded, desperate to shatter his placidity: "What?!"

  
"Your shirt is inside-out," he purred.

  
She howled at that and swatted at him. "Why, you--!"

  
He caught her hands with surprising speed, taking her wrists in a firm grip. She gasped, dull pain shooting down her arm and spreading across her bruised shoulder and along her torso. He let go with a jolt, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly.

  
"Petulant child," he muttered, reaching behind her and toying with the exposed tag of her shirt. "Kirsty Cotton, incapable of dressing herself properly, throwing a tantrum, refusing aid. A petulant child indeed."

  
She stuck out her tongue at him, the pain already rapidly fading. "Whoever takes the position of the child is greatest in heaven?"

  
He scoffed. "Do not misquote and misinterpret scripture at me, child."

  
"I'm a grown woman!" she cried, but before she could protest further she turned away and ducked her head into the crook of her arm, overcome by another coughing fit.

  
Down drifted his hand now, running soft strokes against her back for a solemn minute. When her fit did not subside, he left her side, leaving her awash in loneliness and fear. She bent over, shuddering with each harsh, worsening spasm, and began to question if she'd ever be able to stop. She felt light, too light, all woozy and washed-out. Could it be endless? Either she'd go on like this forever, she decided, gasping for air, or she'd wind up coughing until she threw up what little she'd finally eaten.

  
"Breathe," he instructed, suddenly before her, pressing a glass into her hands. She shook her head, black spots dancing at the edges of her vision. It was impossible. She couldn't, couldn't breathe, couldn't stop, couldn't--

  
"_Breathe._" He grabbed her chin and tilted it upward. She stifled a cough, feeling the pressure build in her chest exponentially with every passing second.

  
"Can't," she whimpered, swallowing. "Please--"

  
Irritation flared in his eyes, blue now icy and cold, and he plucked the glass out of her trembling hands and pressed its rim to her lips. "Then drink."

  
She managed half a sip before she spluttered, choking, displaced water burning her throat fiercely. Tears sprang to her eyes. He let her only have a second of reprieve as she gasped, but then the cool of the glass was back at her lips, and she had no choice but to swallow.

  
Slowly, agonisingly, he tipped the glass forward until there was not even a drop was left.

  
She whined, low and wordless, when he finally let her go, but the coughing had finally stopped. She fell back into the couch, focusing as best she could on moderating her breathing, letting sensation seep back into her oxygen-deprived limbs.

  
He settled on the couch next to her, draping an arm around her and pulling her into his chest. "It does help if you listen to me."

  
She was completely malleable in his grasp, fever-weak and exhausted. She closed her eyes. When she spoke, her voice was hoarse. "Why are you doing this?"

  
He hummed quietly. The rain outside had finally begun to relent, and now was just pattering against the window, a rhythmic, tuneless lullaby. He pondered this for several minutes, and when he answered, it was with a strange and tentative assertion.

  
"I suppose it's nice to be useful."

  
Silence; he looked down. Kirsty was out like a light.

* * *

Somehow, he had fallen asleep behind her, she noticed, the two of them horizontal, her back to his chest. She laid there, shivering -- the chills were back -- and listened to his breathing. She could feel his breath, warm on the back of her neck, and savoured the comfort of the moment.

  
His arm was draped over her. Not in a possessive way, with no lewd or inappropriate contact, but as an artefact from when he'd pulled her close earlier. Had he fallen asleep sitting up like she had? Had the two of them fallen over once sleep had made their bodies limp? Or had he guided her down? She didn't know.

  
She would've just laid there forever, listening to the rain, now as a light drizzle, had he been enough to chase away the cold. But she was freezing, and once she had to bite her lip to keep her teeth from chattering, she squirmed out of his grasp and sat down on the floor, looking up at him. He was so peaceful in his slumber, face perfectly tranquil. He wasn't unattractive in the greying light. Was it late afternoon, or early evening? She couldn't tell. It didn't matter. She admired him for a few moments more before sneaking off to the bedroom. He'd made the bed again, and this time she tried to strip it of the duvet without leaving the sheets in complete disarray. It was no easy feat, and after several minutes she realised that there was no way she'd be able to get it as crisp and pristine as he had. Damn him.

  
Kirsty gave up and tottered back over to the couch, duvet trailing behind her. He was still soundly asleep and did not so much as flinch when she hefted the duvet over him. She crawled beneath it and snuggled up against his chest, draping his arm back over her. It did nothing to stop the shivering, but she was awash with contentment, and in no time at all she had drifted off again.

* * *

There was something on top of him, around him.

  
He stayed very, very still in the face of the unknown, assessing his surroundings. Whatever was on top of him was weighty but soft, and smelled of some synthetic floral, stale sweat, and something distinctly--

  
Kirsty. She was nestled against him, her back to his chest, heat radiating off of her in waves. Her breath was shallow; she was asleep, and he didn't have to press a hand to her head to know she'd gotten worse again. So the weight around them was that bloody duvet again. Had she really thrown it over his head like that? He leaned in, closing the centimetre gap between them, and kissed the back of her head, her hair stringy and damp with sweat now. Her temperature must've been fluctuating wildly, breaking down a degree and then rising again, for her to be this drenched yet so compelled to alleviate the cold. The duvet, he decided, most certainly was not helping. He sighed, affectionately amused. When would she ever learn?

  
Slowly, he pushed the duvet back, letting his eyes adjust to the dusk. So it was evening now. Kirsty didn't react in the slightest.

  
What was she dreaming of? The gloomy crepuscular light cast heavy shadows, making the twitching of her closed eyelids ever more apparent. Deep within the throes of REM sleep, she was otherwise almost completely still. So peaceful in her halcyon rest, and yet so distraught in her malady...

  
Did she have nightmares, he wondered? She'd certainly alluded to it that morning. It had seemed a feeble excuse at the time, but he pondered now if that was a perpetual affliction of hers. Did she always awake nauseated by the monstrosity of her dreams?

  
And was that his fault? Had the sights he'd shown her damaged her so? It was hard for him to wrap his head around. Even before his transformation, his eyes had been wide open to the grim beauty of the atrocities of the world. They'd kept him awake at night, but hardly ever out of fear. He'd reviled the trenches of war, the mindless brutality of it. But he ached for the art of horror -- the exquisite appeal of light fading from troubled eyes. He'd always reckoned that there was a universal, bewitching allure to well-executed death. Morbid curiosity was common enough for a reason, was it not? But Kirsty, even with her apparent capacity for murder, seemed bizarrely unable to stomach the atrocities she'd born witness to.

  
So brave and yet so scared? It seemed contradictory to him.

  
Had she been afraid of the confrontation with her own mortality? Or had she been unable to recognise the pleasure in it all?

  
Or were her dreams of other things? Not of demons and mutilation, but of mundane horrors?

  
Perhaps he'd been a Cenobite for too long.

  
Could he readjust? Such a busy, unfamiliar world surrounded him, so complicated in its new technology and yet so dreadfully _boring_ in its conventional appetites.

  
The Spyderco knife still weighed heavy in his pocket. Had Kirsty been able to feel it, the back of her thigh pressed against his leg as she clung to him for warmth? Perhaps in another timeline, they ruled together over Pyratha. Such potential she had, such defiant fire burning in those brown eyes! And yet...

  
He sighed. He would never do her any harm -- directly or indirectly. He wouldn't be able to bear it. Pleasurable violence had been his business. And now here he was, domestic, forced to leave his occupation behind.

  
He looked down at Kirsty, so fragile in this darkness, brilliant spirit bound by the prison of her ailing flesh.

  
What a strange new purpose he had.

  
She stirred against him, limbs beginning to tremble again as she entered a lighter phase of sleep. He pulled her closer, willing her to calm, but the motion woke her up. She moaned softly at first, then gasped, blinking slowly in the twilight.

  
"Good evening," he said. "Did I wake you?"

  
She grumbled something unintelligible.

  
"Sorry?"

  
She repeated it a few times, her eyes finally snapping open when she attained coherency. "--mmghnm, 'mgnna, hhhnghh... nhgann, _mnph_ \-- m-move, lemme go!"

  
He jerked his arm backwards. Her mumbling had grown urgent. She rolled right off of the couch with a flailing of sleep-heavy limbs, landing with a dull thump and taking the blanket with her. The impact sent a burst of pain through her bruised side. She struggled with the duvet for a bit, tangled in the plush, quilted fabric, then finally broke free and dragged herself over to the wastebasket just in time to be violently sick.

  
Ah.

  
Well. At least it was brief. She scrubbed at her mouth with the back of her hand and turned to look at him with sheepish, bleary eyes. "S-sorry."

  
He just blinked at her and sat up. There was nothing to apologise for. "I would ask you how you're feeling, but I suppose that answers that."

  
"Mm," she said, looking away hastily. "Sorry. I'll -- I'll clean this up. How are you?"

  
He yawned; it surprised him, and he quickly shook away the sleep. "I am well."

  
She frowned and tied off the bin liner. Her hands were shaking something terrible, and she fumbled with it. "You... you should eat something, you know," she lectured, still not looking at him.

  
"And so should you."

  
"...I have to teach you how to use the damn toaster. You do know what a toaster is, right?"

  
"I know of it, yes."

  
"Never used one?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

  
"It wasn't exactly a luxury afforded to us back... then," he admitted.

  
"Mm. Can you, like, not fuck up the eggs?"

  
There was a strange sound, low and rumbling, and at first Kirsty thought she was imagining it. But a look at him revealed the source. Laughing! He was laughing at her, teeth glinting in the half-light.

  
"Yes, Kirsty," he said at last, eyes gleaming. "I will do my very best to not fuck up the eggs. Do you think you'll be able to eat?"

  
She narrowed her eyes, crossing her trembling arms over her chest. She did feel much better after that. "I can damn well try."

  
He got up, folded the duvet, and draped it over the back of the couch. "And there she is. A force to be reckoned with. The enduring Kirsty Cotton. Come now." He bent and wrapped his arms around her, bringing her to her feet. He didn't dare let go until he was certain she was stable enough to stand alone. "Come, sit by my side, and teach me."

* * *

It was funny, she decided, to watch him try to figure out the electric toaster. She'd washed up and now was sat back at the kitchenette island, her head slumped on the counter, smiling, looking at him through a horizontal lens. They'd turned on the overhead light, yellow light chasing away the drizzly darkness. His deft, skillful fingers were playing with the cord and the spring-loaded mechanism with something approaching fascinated trepidation.

  
"You've got to plug it in first," she giggled, watching the very slight pinch of concentration between his brows. "Then the bread, then... then you push the thing down, and... Ah-- yeah, there you go!"  
"Your instructions have been most helpful," he said, something sparkling in his eyes.

  
"Liar," she said, beaming at him.

  
He made a noncommittal little sound, reached over, and patted the top of her head.

  
She couldn't remember closing her eyes, but when she opened them, there was a plate of toast and scrambled eggs before her with another sliced up apple. "Mm," she said, hoisting herself upright. "So you _can_ cook."

  
"So it seems." He sat down next to her with his own plate. It was still strange, she thought, a Cenobite eating food. She watched him eat a forkful of eggs, watched him until he turned to watch her. He tilted his head. "Aren't you hungry?"

  
Not a Cenobite, she reminded herself. Not anymore.

  
She picked up the toast and took several enthusiastic bites in response. It was for the best that she was feverish. That way, he couldn't see her blush, chagrined at being caught staring.

  
She ate almost all of it, and, miraculously, it helped. The weakness in her limbs gradually dissipated, the fatigue from hunger vanishing and leaving her with only the fatigue of fever. Her stomach full and settled, she rested her head on her arms. Eyes half-lidded, she smiled at him. "Mm... Thank you."

  
"You're very welcome," he said, savouring the last bite of his toast.

  
Contented, she closed her eyes completely, listening to him gather the plates and set them in the sink. There was an unfamiliar rustling then, and she opened her eyes to see him worrying away at the foil packaging of the paracetamol with a very sharp knife.

  
"What the hell?"

  
He looked up at her. "Mm?"

  
"You can just, erm..." She tried to mime the action with one hand. "Pop the thing out with -- uh, like, um... Oh, just give me it."

  
He did so, and she popped one of the pills out of the packaging. Spellbound, he watched, and so she did another one, then pushed the plastic and foil square back at him. He then proceeded to pop out the others, like a child presented with bubble wrap for the first time. Little white pills rained down on the counter.

  
"Hey!" she said, propping her head up. "Don't waste them!"

  
He stared at her, unblinking. "And are they unusable now?"

  
"No," she admitted, rubbing the back of her neck. "But you'll have to put them in a container or something."

  
"Mm," he said, pushing two of the pills towards her. "I suppose I will."

  
Kirsty giggled at him, and took them one at a time, hands shaking as she lifted the glass of water. She yawned when she was done, covering her mouth with her hand.

  
"Tired already?" he asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.

  
She closed her eyes against the yellow light and hummed affirmatively.

  
"Lie down then," he ordered, pleasant but firm. She nodded and swung off the chair, eyes still shut, and started to shuffle over to the couch. She'd made it about halfway there, swaying on her feet, when arms wrapped around behind her again and stabilised her. "Why not sleep in a proper bed?"

  
She leaned back against him, a small smile on her lips. "Carry me?"

  
"How very spoiled you've become," he murmured, but obliged. She burrowed beneath the sheets, drawing them up close around her. She was far from comfortable, but she was content, and with her demon, her angel, her strange and doting _mortal_ watching over her, she drifted back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 100% of this was written between the hours of 3am and 6am, so if you see anything weird here, please drop me a message! then i can be extra mortified by the fact that someone actually read this and read enough to notice my mistakes :))
> 
> good god. this is going to wind up being the longest thing i've ever written. what a waste. i'm so sorry.


	3. nameless dawn.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> new challenges are contended with. life goes on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bit of a shorter and less eventful chapter, this one! sorry folks. hopefully the next few chapters will be more exciting.
> 
> (if anyone feels like unfucking my html, please hmu)

He did not sleep that night.

Whether he was incapable of sleep or simply refused to indulge in it was unclear; at sometime around four in the morning, the difference became negligible. At some point, insomnia and procrastination entwine and become one, binding the soul to this conscious stratum. Even if he had wanted to sleep, he would have been unable to, by the mere virtue of having been awake at that hour.

He'd laid beside her for several hours, periodically devoting some of his attention to Kirsty. But she stayed asleep until morning. For the remainder of the night, he ruminated on what he had lost and what the future might hold. She mumbled in her sleep from time to time, pulling him out of his thoughts, but there was nothing coherent or urgent to her quiet mutterings, and so he simply ignored them.

When the sun's rise had become imminent, he gave up on the charade of restfulness and decided to make himself useful. Resigned, he made himself a pot of instant coffee, then busied himself with mundane but necessary chores, manoeuvering silently in the grey apartment, speculating all the while.

He had seen glimpses of the modern world through his summons, watching it evolve as an impartial observer. His focus had always been on the task at hand. He'd seen the culture shift over the century, based on the collective transgressions of each wave of newcomers to Pyratha and the surrounding Labyrinth. But he had always been on the outside looking in. He had transcended beyond the trivialities of the mortal world. It was merely the venue for his work, no more.

And now, he was immersed in it. He was inextricably a part of this mortal earth now, undeniably human.

Whether or not he was _completely_ human remained to be seen. Perhaps the otherworldly aura of incense that lingered on his skin even now was a holdover from his demonic decades. Would he remained attuned to the supernatural, to the parallel planes intersecting with this one? Would he still hear the irresistible call of the Configuration if it were opened, or had his ties to Leviathan been severed completely?

He had lost the metal adornments that Leviathan had gifted him. His pins and piercings had been revoked. His name -- his true name -- had been stripped from him, the smooth skin of his once ritually flayed chest an affront. His reverence for great Leviathan had been rejected.

But he was adaptable.

Kirsty moaned something in her sleep. Had he not such keen ears, he would've missed it over the gentle patter of the rain outside. The odd car rushed past in the dark, tyres rushing along rain-slick streets.

He was here, in this world, for her.

With nothing constructive left to do, he meditated, eyes closed, mind open as dawn broke far beyond the cover of the clouds.

* * *

She woke up slowly, stretching languidly long before she opened her eyes. Enveloped in such softness, she floated in a sweet limbo, warm and secure. She opened her eyes at her leisure, letting them adjust gradually. The rain had tapered off almost completely, leaving the sky outside her window a hazy pale grey.

"Morning," she murmured, rolling over. But he was not beside her, and she frowned. She'd gotten used to his presence rather quickly, hadn't she? Him, the alluring nightmare, now sorely missed.

She sat up, scanning the room for him. Her eyes landed on the nightstand, and a rush of cold fear coursed through her.

"_Shit_!" she hissed, hastily disentangling her legs from the sheets. She sat up, swinging herself onto the edge of the bed. The sudden shift in altitude sent a wave of dizziness spiraling through her. Vision rapidly greying, static sparking at the edges of her peripheral field, she shut her eyes and grabbed a fistful of the sheets, waiting it out. A few long seconds passed, determination and unsteadiness warring at each other. Finally, heart pounding in her chest, she steeled herself against the light-headedness and clamored to her feet.

* * *

He was cross-legged and perfectly still on the open plan floor when Kirsty staggered out of the bedroom, grumbling obscenities. It was the rattling sound that snapped him out of his meditative fugue, though.

"C-can't get the -- fuck! -- god_damn_ thing open...!" Her hair was all in disarray, having largely escaped from the neat ponytail she'd styled yesterday. Her face was flushed with low-grade fever and pinched with frustration, trembling as she fumbled with the cap of a pill bottle. The more she struggled, the more her hands shook, making it all the more difficult to undo the lid. It was a vicious cycle, he noted, and rose to his feet.

He outstretched a hand before her, and she gave in, pressing the bottle into his palm. He studied the child lock for a few careful seconds, then smoothly twisted it off and returned both pieces to her. She exhaled a tremulous breath, swaying with overwhelming relief at his success, and hastily shook a tablet into her palm. He watched her swallow it dry, and gently did he coax the bottle and lid back from her so that he could cap it. She was still shaking, and he feared she'd drop it otherwise.

Lamotrigine. Hm. And why had she been so desperate to take this, he wondered, when it quite clearly had been prescribed to treat a problem she did not have?  
From the other side of the island, he poured her a cup of coffee -- now unfortunately rather tepid -- and asked her as much.

"Taking course after course of medication teaches you a few things," she said, sitting down at the island with the mug grasped in both hands. "First, you don't mix that shit. Second, you don't skip doses. Withdrawal is..." she shuddered at the thought, coffee splashing onto her hand. _Fortunately _rather tepid, he corrected himself. "Well. You don't want to go cold turkey."

He hummed. "And I presume that if that weren't the case, you'd not take such unnecessary medications? It seems to me that it's done rather more harm than good."

She scrunched her nose up at him. It had been his fault in the first place that she'd wound up on a lifetime of prescription drugs. Years of mood stabilisers, antipsychotics, antidepressants... All because she'd made the mistake of telling the truth at the Channard Institute. Now, she was subject to informed consent, but there was a significant amount of pressure placed on patients to sign, swallow, and comply, especially in inpatient. Even after all this time, she still had bitter flashbacks, the occasional tiny trigger stirring up the trauma, memory awakening and all-consuming, and she was back at Ludovico Place, and there was a hand against her, and she was screaming, couldn't stop screaming, couldn't stop, couldn't get them away from her_\--!_

Last time, all it had taken was the scent of Julia's perfume. The severity of the attacks, combined with her prominent medical history, almost always prompted a 72-hour hold.

Perhaps there had been a part of her, too, that hoped desperately that all she'd seen had been little more than a delusion. That with the right course of treatment, she'd awaken to the truth. Perhaps the detectives had been right. Simple murder had ravaged her family -- no demons required.

And yet here stood the demon before her, all too real.

She took a sip of the coffee. It was a bit strong for her liking.

"I've weaned myself off of the others," she explained. It'd been an agonisingly slow process, but it had been worth it to be rid of the side effects. "Still working on this one."

The corner of his mouth twitched downward. Silently, he reached across the counter and pressed the back of his hand to her forehead. Still warm, but much less a cause for concern now. She turned away, coughing, and the Lord of the Configuration withdrew his hand.

"Sorry," she said, once the fit had subsided. "How are you? How'd you sleep?"

She seemed more lucid, yes, but less coordinated, and she almost dropped her mug when he replied: "Ah, well. I'm afraid I didn't."

"D-didn't?!" she echoed, coffee sloshing onto the counter. She swore softly. She'd have to clean that up.

He took a sip, perfectly reticent and reserved. "Mm, so it seems. Do not fret; it was a beautiful night. You, however, I hope slept well."

She set her mug down a bit more forcefully than intended, and the clattering sound echoed throughout the small apartment. He did not so much as flinch. "Seriously? You've _got_ to take care of yourself, too," she said, struggling to tamp down her frustration. "Sorry you're not immortal anymore, but you need to sleep."

He pursed his lips, clearly not entertaining her concern. He'd grown increasingly expressive since she'd found him. The pins, she realised, had probably inhibited his facial expressions more than the young scar tissue did. Even still, he was very composed, and with another sip of coffee he was back to a perfectly flat, serene affect. That must've been part of his personality, then.

Had Elliot Spencer been the same way? Or was this just a Cenobite thing? She didn't dare ask. She wasn't sure if he even knew.

Kirsty was about to protest further when a telltale heaviness began in her limbs. She set down her mug and propped her chin up on her arms. She tried to match his cool stare with a determined, disapproving glare, but the fire behind her eyes burned no brighter than a cluster of embers. Her eyelids fluttered; she set her jaw and snapped them open.

"Are you alright?" he asked, the silence between them finally broken. His placid mask had cracked and worry was beginning to shine through. Caught on the other side of the island, he hesitated, unsure whether or not he needed to rush by her side.

She nodded, her eyelids taking that brief moment to close. She fought to open them and meet those brilliant blue eyes. "Just... side effect. Sleepy. 'M fine, just gotta push through it..." She dug her nails into her own cheek, trying to use the pain to keep herself awake. Drowsiness had dulled the sensation, and she looked up at him with pleading eyes. "Talk to me?"

"As you wish," he said, casting a single look at her hand. "And do you happen to have any particular topics of conversation in mind, Miss Cotton?"

"Mm... Not really, n-- Oh! Oh!" The realisation came slowly to her, her exclamation slurred by the impenetrable encroaching fog of sleep. "You need a name still..."

"Ah, I presume none of my titles are terribly appropriate," he said. Nor were they particularly accurate, given his disgrace... Mercifully, even his most degrading of nicknames no longer applied.

She smiled at him, half-drunk with exhaustion. She was a mess, an adorable mess. "D'you remember being... uh..." She fought for the words.

"Captain Elliot Spencer?" he finished. "I'm afraid my recollection isn't the best. How well do you remember your childhood years, Kirsty? It has been only a few decades for you; it has been a century for me. Both the Lethe-like waters of time and those amnestic bonds -- which you may recall afflicted my Gash, given your hand in severing them -- have left much for my memory to be desired. For a time, I was separated from all vestiges of my humanity, left as a creature of pure ambition and complete adherence to Leviathan's ways. I have no doubt that this worsened the disconnect.

"But yes," he said, taking a sip of coffee. "I do remember some."

Perhaps she was dreaming it, already slipping into alpha-wave delusions. But hypnagogic or true, the aura of melancholy around him seemed to perceptibly deepen.

She yawned. "So I guess I can't really call you Elliot Spencer, then? 'Cause now you're... not him?"

"Hm. It might not be completely apt, but I'm not certain what the alternative is."

"There's lotsa names," she said, eyes drifting closed. Her hand had fallen from her face, leaving angry blue-red crescents sunken into her skin. "Lotsa alternatives..."

"Perhaps that's something we'll consider when you wake up."

"Not asleep," she protested, her head sinking onto the counter. He reached over and slid the mug away from her, clearing a space so that she wouldn't knock it over.

He hummed softly, tunelessly, and ran a hand over her hair. "I would indulge you, truly, were you not ill. But for now I think it best you stop resisting."

"Hey," she grumbled, coughing weakly, "You're supposed t'.... t'sleep..."

He said nothing, simply stroking her hair again. Heat no longer radiated off of her in waves, but she still glowed with feverish warmth and her hair, mussed and frizzy with both bedhead and humidity, was damp with sweat.  
He had never bothered to turn on the overhead light, and in the cool dimness of the apartment, she quickly succumbed.

Satisfied that she wasn't likely to fall onto the floor, he finished his coffee and took a shower. The insomniac adrenaline that had sustained him thus far had begun to wear off, and so he let the cold water shock him into awareness and shake off the weariness that had just started to seep into his bones. Once the caffeine finally kicked in, he figured, he'd be fine. She had been right -- he would, eventually, have to heed her requests and sleep, especially if he wanted to keep from catching whatever contagious illness she'd come down with. But integration into the mortal realm seemed to be the wisest course of action, and unless he did something to keep from becoming nocturnal, he'd find himself ever more out of place. And so he would wait until tonight.

As he dressed, he found himself missing the leather vestments of his former life, lashed to and interwoven with his own skin. It had been a privilege to endure that perpetual pain of hooks digging into his flesh, but it had also been admittedly comfortable. It had been nice to have that freedom of movement, the hem of his cassock loosely dusting the floor even as the bodice hugged him tightly. It had been Leviathan's embrace, and there was no substitute.

It had been with a sentimental sort of longing that he'd bought that long skirt the day before. He'd been wandering down the unfamiliar fluorescent aisles, trying to gain his bearings in the strange sharp light. Given the abysmal weather, the store had been uncharacteristically empty. Two teenage boys, however, had braved the deluge, and were talking amongst themselves. They had seemed preoccupied enough by their conversation that they failed to notice him. It was a welcome respite from the stares his scars had earned him. One was tall and uncommonly thin, the other of average build. Neither could have been older than twenty, and a youthful exhilaration shone in their eyes.

The lanky one had huffed. "Ugh, the rain ruined my makeup! This is $30 foundation, you know. Why did we do this, anyway?"

"Honey, you look fine," the other had said, fiddling with the collar of his jacket. "My hair, on the other hand..."

The pair had taken advantage of a nearby mirror, fussing at each other, preening with gentle touches.

Ah, the Hell Priest had realised. A couple.

"Look," the shorter one had continued, satisfied no more could be done to revive his sopping, bleach-blond hair. He'd slicked it back, out of his eyes, revealing an eyebrow piercing. It had gleamed in the false light, and a melancholic yearning for metal through flesh had pulled at the former Cenobite's chest. "You're the one who said you wanted to do this. And I'm sorry, love, but I'm _n__ot _letting you steal your sister's clothes anymore. She has terrible taste."

"Isn't it weird, though?" The taller one had crossed into the women's clothing section and was running his hand over the racks of hangers, relishing the sound of plastic clacking together. "For a guy to wear girls' clothing?"

The shorter one had clicked his tongue and grabbed a skirt off the rack -- baby blue and short, with floral print. "It's not weird, it's fashion. The world is changing. Now try this on."

"That one?"

"It'll look good with your hair!"

"And when the dye fades? I'm not wearing that when my hair goes all green."

"Then dye your hair more often, oh my God!" He'd thrown the skirt at his boyfriend, grinning. "Go try this on."

"Hey, hair dye's fucking expensive! Hand me a different colour, yeah?"

As they bickered, the man who had once been Elliot had watched on, bemused but intrigued. If this was the way the world was heading, perhaps he was permitted to indulge.

It had not taken bravery, but rather indifference to the cultural norms of this reality to buy the garment. But now, as he dressed himself, he opted to just wear the plain black jeans he'd bought. They were unpleasant, but he figured that, given Kirsty's fragile condition, he ought not to do anything that could give her a fright. He could simply wear it around the apartment when she was out. She did have a job of sorts, didn't she?

He realised very suddenly that, as interwoven as the threads of their lives had become, they knew very little about each other.

She was still slumped against the counter, fast asleep, and so he gently picked her up and carried her over to the couch. She hardly stirred in his arms, not even to snuggle into his chest. Was that fondness he felt, setting her down and running a gentle hand over her head, or simple responsibility? She was still warm against his cool skin, and he frowned. There was little he could do now but wait for her to wake up, and so, tearing himself away from her side, he decided to take inventory of the apartment.

Although Kirsty had orchestrated a rather minimalist life for herself, she had a surprisingly expansive collection of books. It was a curious mix indeed -- mass-market paperbacks, pristine hardcovers, several bibles, sheafs of loose papers that had been crammed between tomes. And there were old books, with gold embossment and leather binding. He pulled one off of the bookshelf, its yellowed pages musty and stiff. He scanned the page. _Ah. _So they were books on the occult. How very fitting. Had she procured all of these to try to make sense of her experiences, or was she involved in other affairs now? He hated to entertain the latter notion. He had a complicated relationship with magic, and it'd be most unpleasant if they were at odds with each other over the subject...

He replaced the book he'd removed and continued down the bookshelf. _Codex Seraphinianus_, the _Carapace Derivations_, the _Ars Goetia_, some pitiful modern bastardisation of the _Trestee Sangre Vinniculum_, stripped of all but its name, and -- ah -- _De praestigiis daemonum_. He shook his head slowly at that. How poorly humanity had attempted to make sense of the things around it. What had Kirsty seen in this?

None of her books were first editions or particularly valuable in the magical spheres. There were certainly some amongst the older books which held considerable monetary value, but the information between their covers was hardly worth what Kirsty must've paid for them. On the very lowest shelf sat a well-worn paperback copy of Dante's _Inferno_, and he snorted at it. The Chatterer had had strong opinions about that one. Many an hour had been spent tuned into the telepathic channel of his thoughts, watching the Cenobite leap and pace about, chattering and gesturing animatedly as he articulated his most extreme judgements on Dante's discrepancies. It had been a source of much entertainment for his Gash.

His fingers trailed down each spine, finding equal parts impressive attempts at knowledge-seeking and great amusement. Kirsty Cotton had certainly tried, that much could be said.

A small black book he was unfamiliar with had been sandwiched between two sheafs of paper. Its spine had not been cracked; it still had that new book smell.

Perhaps it was the mania of sleep deprivation, but when read the title, he could hardly contain his laughter.

* * *

She jolted awake, sitting straight up. "Fuck!" Kirsty hissed, looking about her, eyes wide, heart pounding. She had _not_ meant to fall asleep -- Lamictal nightmares were a bitch and half to contend with. She panted, digging her nails into the couch cushions. How had she gotten on the couch?

Oh -- _he_ had probably brought her here. Had he guided her to the couch before she'd passed out, or had he carried her? She couldn't remember. Where was he, anyway?

She squinted in the grey and searched for him among the hazy silhouettes of furniture and the long shadows they cast. There, by the bookshelf, was that -- ? What was he doing? Fuck, she’d told him he’d needed to sleep! Tentatively, she got up and investigated, concern rising in her chest.

He was crouched on the floor, shaking. Was he -- no, he couldn't possibly be -- crying? She edged closer but immediately recoiled. He wasn't crying, he was shaking with silent laughter! He ran a hand over his bald head and looked up, lips pressed together tightly, tears in his eyes.

"Good morning, Kirsty," he said, voice faltering with barely suppressed mirth.

She crossed her arms. "Alright, what's so funny?"

He held up the book in response, biting his lip to try to restrain a smile.

Oh _no._

Of all the incriminating things he could've found, he'd stumbled upon Anton Szandor LaVey's _Satanic Bible_.  
"H-hey!" she exclaimed, ripping it out of his hand. "That's not -- it was a gag gift from a friend --!"

He nodded, eyes glittering. "Mm, I'm sure it was."

"No, really!" she protested, indignantly putting her hand on her hip. "I wouldn't actually have bought -- stop laughing at me, I'm serious!"

"Mr. LaVey has some _very_ interesting ideas about Lucifer," he said, raising his eyebrows. "There are some fantastic incantations in there, truly. But can you believe -- all of this work, and yet he failed to list me in his lovely little compendium of Infernal Names. Should I be hurt?"

"Stop it!" she giggled. "I haven't even read the damn thing!"

"What do you think, Kirsty? Is it too late for me to sell my soul? Perhaps you'd be so kind as to lend me the money for the membership fee?"

She was grinning despite herself. "If you become a card-carrying Satanist, I'm kicking you out. Isn't there a cult dedicated to you already? Why don't you go join that?"

"Ah, but the eternal flame of power through joy dwelleth within the flesh of the Satanist!"

"Stop it! Stop it, I'm gonna just throw the book away!"

He stood up and pulled her against his chest, taking her hands in his. "Oh, Kirsty, darling. Come now, don't excite yourself. I do believe you."

"You're cruel," she said, smirking.

"I've been told such by many, often by means far more profane. I believe you'll find my charm and cruelty are in equal balance."

"Mmm," she conceded, "you are pretty charming."

"I'm honoured that you hold me in such high regard," he purred, and deftly pried the book out of her fingers.

He'd expected her to rage against him at the sleight, but she just slid her hands down to his waist and pulled herself closer to him. "I don't think I can help it."

Still holding the paperback, he brought his hand down to the small of her back. Brown eyes still slightly hazy with sleep, her hair now a proper tangled mane, her cheeked reddened with indignant fervor and incessant fever, she was beautiful.

He brushed some her hair out of his face, letting the palm of his hand linger across her forehead.

So mortal. So fragile.

So beautiful.

And, he acknowledged, so very warm still. It was persistent, this fever. He'd have to get her to take more paracetamol.

He leaned in. "Would you care for some more coffee?" he whispered, lips brushing against her ear.

She moaned. "That would actually be heaven."

"Heaven? Really? How blasphemous."

And then they both were laughing again, clinging to each other, together buoyant in the wake of the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (please email me at lamentconfigurati0n@protonmail.com if you're interested in being a beta reader! as you can tell from this chapter, i'm in desperate need of one)
> 
> also i got like 8 entire hours of sleep today and now i don't know how to write anymore because what's an insomnia-fueled ramble without the insomnia??? dlkfsjdsl thank you so much if you've read this far


	4. encounters.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the world is vast and strange, but the people in it are perhaps even stranger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sadfghfdsafghjgfdsfghjkl look at me trying to pretend i know how to write wow  
anyway! enjoy. be warned: something approaching an actual plot lies ahead.

"Smith?"

"Mnh."

"Summers?"

"Mhm."

"Alright then, what about Skinner? That one's pretty good."

"Ah... entertaining as that is, it's a bit too on the nose, wouldn't you say?"

"Yeah, you're right. What about Sullivan?"

"Mmm..."

  


"I'd suggest 'Singer,' but that was my mother's maiden name."

"Ah. And I suppose context like that could very well induce other complications."

Kirsty scrunched up her nose at the thought. "Yeah. People might start thinking we're cousins or something. Eugh. How about Sharpe?"

"Once more with the euphemisms? Amusing as that may be, I'm afraid I'll have to decline."

  


"Sykes, then?"

"Ehm."

"How about Schwarz? Don't tell me that's not tempting. Elliot Schwarz?"

He made another noncommittal noise, clearly unimpressed. They had been at this for half an hour now, and while the former Cenobite's patience was infinite, Kirsty's was starting to wear thin. It had been decided that he would keep the given name assigned to him so long ago, but he would need a new last name. Once they'd settled this, Kirsty would reach out to an old acquaintance of hers about getting Elliot the requisite papers, and then his new and (mostly) legal identity would be well and truly complete.

"Stokes?"

Elliot frowned and set down the book he'd been reading. It was mid-afternoon, and Kirsty was laying on the floor, head propped up on her arms, watching him. Her eyes widened as he wordlessly knelt before her and, gravely, pressed the back of his hand to her forehead.

"Hey!" she said, laughing. "That bad of an idea, huh? Okay, okay. What about Steele?"

He tilted his head at her.

"S-T-E-E-L-E?" she spelt, giving him a hopeful smile. 

  


It was hard to say no to those brown eyes. Feigning indifference, he ran his hand through her hair. She'd showered, and it was soft. "I suppose it'll do." He stood up, retreating to his book.

"Finally! It's about fucking time!" she groaned, and flopped onto her back. The motion knocked the air out of her lungs, and she gasped, curling up onto her side. Breathless, wheezing coughs shook her tiny frame. He'd only gotten as far as turning his back on her, and so quickly he turned around and knelt by her side, a flicker of genuine concern passing over his face. He did his best to rub gentle circles against her back, but the violence of her coughing made this difficult. Head in her hands, she wound up shaking as the fit tapered off, muscles taught. Her body had learned the motion, and not yet caught up with the fact that she was no longer coughing. Every inhale sent another tremor through her, her lungs burning. Her hands drifted to her chest, desperately willing for breathing to come easy again. _Sorry_, she mouthed, her eyes closed. _Sorry._

Cautiously, he pulled away and fetched her a glass of water. Her lips were chapped, he noticed, her breathing laboured as he helped her sit up. The water was blessedly cool against her burning throat, but when she spoke, her voice was raspy.

"Thank you, Elliot."

He sighed. "You are most welcome, Kirsty." Resting one hand on her shoulder to steady her, he brought his palm up to her forehead again. 

"You already did that," she said, clearly cross.

  


"Yes, but that was for the sheer entertainment value of it. Does that vex you so? I'd believed you had rather an astute sense of humour." She was no warmer than before. So her face was just flushed from exertion, then. Dissatisfied with his assessment, he sat back on his heels and watched her drink.

  


Finished, she handed her glass back to him. He stood, taking his hand off her shoulder, and she winced. The bruising along her side had darkened rather distinctly overnight.

He refilled the glass, leaving it ready on standby. Resting his elbows on the kitchenette counter, he massaged his temples. Maybe it was a product of sleep deprivation, or maybe he was over-caffeinated, or -- most likely -- it was a combination of both. But he could feel a nasty headache coming on, dull, throbbing pain eating at the edges of his attention span.

This was not, he decided, the sort of pain that he enjoyed.

A foreign sound tore through the apartment, ripping him out of his thoughts. It was a strange chirping noise -- something not quite music and piercingly annoying. His eyes snapped open, and he saw that Kirsty had now gotten to her feet and was rushing around the apartment, swaying as she searched for the source of the sound. 

"Shit, shit, shit." She muttered, absolutely tearing through the apartment, shaking out the duvet, sweeping all that rested on the nightstand onto the floor, upturning a laundry basket and sending a proper avalanche of clothes cascading across the bedroom. Elliot was legitimately impressed; he'd no idea someone so infirm could hold such adroit powers of destruction. This pile she picked through, rummaging through unclean pockets until -- at last -- she found the source of the noise. She raised it above her head in childlike victory before quickly scrabbling with it and pressing it to her ear.

Silence, he decided, was a state to be venerated. They had not had such trying ringtones in Hell, but perhaps that ought to change. It was a most exceptional form of torture.

Even with his remarkably keen hearing, he could not hear the other end of the conversation. He only watched on from across the apartment as Kirsty staggered to her feet, juggling the phone as she tried to get dressed. 

"No, I'm -- fuck, I'm so sorry, I didn't get your letter, no -- I, _fuck_, I'm sorry, I haven't been able to check the mail in a few days--" 

She cringed at the reply, cradling the phone in the crook between her head and shoulder as she tugged on a pair of slim slacks. 

"Shit, okay, the usual? Fuck, I'm sorry -- no, yeah, I'll... fuck, fifteen, maybe twenty minutes, tops? Christ, I'm sorry." She hopped on one foot, struggling to put on socks, grimacing. "Yeah, no, I'm leaving now, _fuck_, I'm sorry -- _Shit!_" She threw down the phone. It skittered across the carpet. "The bastard hung up on me!"

Elliot frowned, walked over, picked over the phone, and handed it back to her. She had managed to put on a bra and collared shirt, but was fumbling with the buttons and had only half of them done up. "Oh, fuck. Thank you," she said, voice tight as she stuck her phone into her back pocket. "Do you still have my wallet?"

She'd put some of the buttons in the wrong buttonholes, he realised and nodded. "Yes. You'll find it's on the counter." Before she had the time to push past him and try to rush out the door, he undid and redid the closures. Her impatience was practically palpable. He took his time, tormenting her, drawing out the action as though it were some intricate ritual. "I would not advise going out like this. You're clearly not well."

  


She bit her lip. "I have to. I... I'm late for a meeting with a colleague." She swallowed, genuinely apologetic. "A very important colleague."

Kirsty Cotton had always been resolute. It had been her determination and resourcefulness that had gotten her through the trials and tribulations of the Configuration. And, despite the nerves she now shook with, he could see that unyielding stubbornness in her eyes. There would be no reasoning with her.

"Do take care of yourself," he warned, and let go.

He thought she was going to fall over in her haste, and she very nearly stumbled, practically careening into the kitchenette island in pursuit of her wallet and keys, swearing profusely as battled with the zipper on her boots. For a moment, he thought she might just leave without a word, but at the last second, halfway out the door, she turned around and met his eyes. There was genuine gratitude there, and she gave a wan, thin smile.

"Thank you."

And with that, she was gone.  


* * *

She really should've brought an umbrella, she realised, or at least a coat. The rain was light, but it had not yet ceased, and it was cold. It was a strange feeling, walking down the city streets, to be both hot and cold all at once, her breath burning against the cool air. Running on adrenaline and willpower, she pushed through the dismal gloom. She shouldn't have worn a white shirt, she realised belatedly, as spots of it had gone see-through with rain. Perhaps it would get her 'colleague' to ease up on her.

It took her a solid twenty minutes to make it to the diner, and when she entered, he was just rising to leave. He sat back down, raising his eyebrows when he saw her.

"Look what the cat dragged in," he said, eyeing her up and down. "Took you long enough. You look like shit."

She sighed and sat down across from him, practically collapsing on the chair.

"Good to see you too, Harry."

* * *

It simply wasn't right.

He'd tried to allay his concern by tackling the disaster she'd left in her wake. Kirsty was certainly capable of taking care of herself.

So why did the thought of her out in the rain, meeting with some unknown cohort at some unknown location, fill him with some sort of cold, still dread? She was a grown woman, far more skilled in navigating this world than he was. But Elliot had just seen her completely debilitated by a coughing fit. Yesterday, she'd hardly been fit to get out of bed, let alone run some sort of errand!

That was it, then. He simply could not stay here, waiting. What if she had collapsed somewhere? Slumped against the side of a building in a dirty street... He knew all too well the human capacity for cruelty, and he shuddered to think of how a passerby might take advantage of her in such a state...

What had she said? Fifteen, twenty minutes? If she were walking the distance, then he presumed she'd be somewhere within a kilometre's radius. Earlier, he'd seen roughly which way she'd headed, watching her out the window until she'd vanished around a corner.

He shrugged on the long black coat he'd bought, turned up the collar, and set off after her, the door locking automatically behind him.

* * *

  


She kept her eyes locked on Harry D'Amour's arm. His sleeves were rolled up, leaving his forearms exposed. There was a sigil tattooed there among many -- one she didn't recognise, intricate and arcane -- and it kept twitching. She'd known his tattoos were magical, but she'd never really seen them _move_ like that before. She wondered if it hurt.

"You run here or something?" he asked.

She took a sip of her coffee, eyes downcast. "Something like that." It needed more cream than she’d added, but it was a welcome change from the black coffee Elliot had made.

"Hey," he said, "Look at me and cut the shit. I'm only in town for the day, and I have some information you're going to want to pay attention to."

  


Nodding, she looked up. He had a couple days' worth of stubble on his face, and his eyes were weary with travel. A waitress passed by with a tray full of plates, and the greasy smell turned her stomach. She bit her lip to keep from gagging. Harry only had coffee before him, and for that she was grateful. "Sorry," she mumbled.

"Alright. Look, I've heard word from Tiffany, and she says there's something big coming. Something's happening on the Other Side, and we have to be ready to either get with it or get the hell out of its way."

Kirsty raised an eyebrow at him. "Get with it? Don't tell me that you're thinking of infernal alliances."

"Of course not," he scoffed. "I don't trust any of those demonic bastards as far as I can throw them. But I'm not going down without a fight. So I propose a third option. We fight. Send them back. I’m not interested in being demon food, and I doubt your brand of Harrowers are going to go quietly when the levee breaks, either."

She folded her arms over her chest. "So. What's the plan?"  


* * *

"_Dude_," called a voice, breathless admiration in its tone, "Nice scarification."

Elliot turned. Two men, huddled beneath the skinny awning of a tattoo parlour ahead, trying to manage a smoke break despite the drizzling rain, were looking on at him with wide eyes and face-splitting grins. 

"Yeah," one said, taking a long drag on his cigarette. The smoke curled grey plumes in the air when he exhaled, water droplets glittering in the cloud. "Who did your work? That's fuckin' art, dude."

"A very honoured mentor of mine marked me such," Elliot replied, the faintest hint of a smile on his pale lips. "But my own expertise is rather concentrated in the piercing of flesh."

The men glanced at each other, exchanging excited looks. "Oh, shit, dude," said the first. "You're a piercer?"

"Of sorts," Elliot conceded.

The other fumbled with his carton of cigarettes, fishing one out and proffering it and his lighter to the newcomer they'd heckled. "Smoke?"

"Thank you," Elliot said, taking both. He lit the cigarette deftly, returning the lighter and inhaling deeply. It had been a very, very long time since he had tasted nicotine. This was strange, though, burning differently in his lungs. Sharper. Cooler. 

"Sorry, it's menthol," said the first man. He was perhaps in his late twenties or early thirties and had a high undercut, with tattoos visible along his scalp. "Hope you don't mind. I should've asked."

"I appreciate your generosity regardless," Elliot said, turning and exhaling.

The second man grinned. He had multiple lip piercings, and as he spoke Elliot could see more metal glinting inside his mouth. "How long have you been in the business, man? I'm guessing you're pretty serious if you've had that kind of work done."

"I have performed procedures beyond what you can imagine for far longer than you have been alive." 

A veteran of the body modification industry. The two admired that in hushed silence, the only sound the pattering of the rain against the awning. Eventually, the second one could no longer hold his pierced tongue. "Fuck, man, our piercer just quit last week. If you're down, we'd love to take a look at your resume."

"I'm afraid I have no documented proof of my experience. It was all lost rather recently."

"Shit, man..." he said, worrying at his snakebites with his teeth. Elliot watched the studs move with quiet amusement. "Look, I don't normally do this, but maybe you could do an apprenticeship with us?"

Elliot blinked. "An apprenticeship? I will... consider it. Thank you."

"Of course, of course. No problem, man," said the first man. He still had eyes only for the grid of scars across Elliot's face, but there was only reverence in his expression. There was no trace of the abject horror that Elliot had grown so accustomed to. "Shit, man," he whispered. "The lines are so fine..."

Elliot took one last drag and stubbed out the cigarette on the wall. "Thank you very much. I would pass on your compliments if only I were able. Now, if you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I'm afraid I was on my way to attend to some rather urgent matters."

The short one coughed, nodding vigorously. "Oh, shit, yeah, sorry man! Totally didn't mean to pull you away like that. You just look so... y'know." The one with the undercut elbowed him in the side.

"See you 'round?" he called, shoving the carton back into his pocket.

  


"Yes," Elliot said, tucking the half-spent cigarette behind his ear and walking off. "I believe I will 'see you 'round.'" 

* * *

This place was terrible, Kirsty decided. It had been Harry’s usual meeting spot for the past year now. But it was weirdly crowded for mid-afternoon today, and it reeked of food. The bell jingled somewhere behind them. A waiter called out a tired welcome. Kirsty swallowed hard.

"According to Tiffany -- although I'd take her word with a grain of salt, given last time -- there're factions emerging in Hell," Harry was saying. 

"Factions?" Kirsty ran a hand over her face. 

"Yeah, factions." Harry sucked in air through his teeth. "It's unlike anything she's seen before. Full-on rifts, constant revolts. They're talking of coming top-wise. The ghosts are fucking scared."

  


"Ah. My condolences. I do believe you may have me to blame for that," came a low voice from behind Kirsty.

"_Jesus fuck!_" Harry yelled, eyes wide. He jumped to his feet, his chair toppling behind him. "_You!_"

Kirsty turned to look, the sudden motion making her head swim. He cut an imposing figure in this grungy little diner, tall and severe, black coat swathed around him, his eyes shining darkly. 

It reminded her of the first time she'd seen him, only this time she was not so afraid.

The detective, on the other hand, was all wide eyes and set jaw. He'd picked up a fork and was brandishing it as though it were a weapon. "I _fucking_ knew it! Too many damn ghosts in this city -- shouldn't 've ignored my tattoos."

  


The Hell Priest extended a hand. "Elliot Steele. A pleasure to make your acquaintance. I see my reputation proceeds me; yours has done the same, Harry D'Amour."

"I'm not shaking hands with a fucking demon!" Harry spat. All eyes in the diner were on them now. A busboy lingered by the phone on the wall, ready to dial the police if things escalated.

Elliot let his hand fall and sat down next to Kirsty. Tenderly, he ran a hand over her rain-damp hair. She wrinkled her nose at him. "You smell like cigarettes."

"Yes," he said simply. Harry looked on in disbelief and revulsion, and, finally, unable to think of anything better to do, righted his chair and sat back down.

"Kirsty?" the detective asked. His eyes seemed quite ready to pop out of his head. "_Him?_"

She closed her eyes, taking another sip of coffee. "Mhm, yeah." She tilted her head at Elliot, eyes still shut. "How'd you find me?"

"How long have you been tracking us?" Harry hissed, gritting his teeth. "How many months?"

Elliot gave him a rather pleasantly impassive look. "On the contrary. It was a lucky coincidence if you believe in such things. I happened to see you in the window while I was walking past."

  


"Bullshit," Kirsty giggled. "You totally followed me."

"Perhaps," Elliot said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Perhaps not."

Nonplussed, Harry sat back in his chair, trying to take it all in.

"Jesus," he said at last. "You've really gone off the deep end, Kirsty."

Someone cleared their throat beside them. Kirsty looked up to see a rather timid-looking waiter, fiddling with the order pad in his hands. "Sorry to interrupt, but can I get you anything?"

Elliot considered for a moment. "Coffee, if you'd be so kind."

"D... decaf or regular?"

"Regular, thank you."

The waiter nodded and scurried off, waiting until he was out of earshot to huff. Damn customers, making a ruckus and not even ordering any food. 

"Never seen a fucking demon order fucking coffee before," Harry muttered, glaring daggers at Elliot.

"How very little in the grand scheme of things you have seen, Harry D'Amour," Elliot said. It was not patronising, but a statement of simple fact, and Harry, confounded, found himself with no retort at the ready.

"You shouldn't've followed me," Kirsty chided, propping her head up on her arm.

"And you should not have gone out on your own like that."

Harry leaned forward now, eyes stern. "Hey, look. I don't give a shit what kind of weird pact she made with you. Sold her soul, whatever. But I don't let demons control my friends like that. Kirsty can do whatever the hell she likes."

Elliot nodded curtly. "In another other situation, I would gladly respect Miss Cotton's autonomy. Certainly, for all of your research, you are aware of how highly Cenobites value consent." Harry gnashed his teeth, about to go on a proper tirade about how Scummy hadn't had the option to consent when he had been set aflame back in that New York street, but Elliot held up a hand to silence him and continued. "For a detective, your powers of observation are abysmal. Can you not tell that Kirsty is ill?"

Kirsty was staring down at the milky surface of her coffee now, watching it ripple. "'M not that sick," she mumbled. She stifled a cough.

"Christ," Harry said, finally seeing her. The reddened face. The glassy eyes. The thin sheen of sweat on her forehead, which he'd thought was just rain. "I just thought --"

"No," Elliot corrected, blue eyes icy sharp. "That's the problem, detective. You didn't think. Caught up in your own stinking self-absorbed miasma, always rushing onto the next case. How ironic it is that this 'demon' should be more capable of compassion than yourself."

"Stop it, guys," Kirsty moaned, putting her head in her hands. They both turned to look at her. She was deteriorating quickly. Whether from emotional stress or physical exhaustion, they could not tell. "'Nough about me. E-Elliot? What'd'you mean the factions were your fault?"

Thunder rumbled outside, and she looked up just in time to see lightning split the sky.

"Shit," Harry muttered. "I saw that on the radar. Another storm heading in."

Kirsty ducked her head, coughing. The waiter had returned with Elliot's coffee and gave Kirsty a disgusted look. "Anything else for you three?" he asked, clicking his tongue.

  


"Not right now," Harry said. "Maybe later."

The waiter was less shy about his contempt now, and simply turned and stalked off.

Harry watched as Elliot drank, steam rising off of the cup. Didn't that burn? He'd never get over the sight of a Cenobite drinking coffee, he thought. Although, he didn't seem quite so much of a Cenobite now. Pinfuck had lost the pins, for starters, and now he was going by 'Elliot.' Christ. What a joke. Was this some sort of pathetic attempt at a trap?

"You are right, you know," Elliot said, and Harry jumped. He couldn't read minds, could he? "Something unpleasant is brewing in the Labyrinth's unfathomable depths."

The detective let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. Kirsty, quiet now, just rested her head on the table and listened.

"Dissent among the infernal -- sufferers and tormentors alike -- is far from uncommon. Civil strife to be expected with such an unruly bunch. But order has been increasingly abandoned, and the lure of Leviathan's realm has held less and less sway. Its inhabitants are displeased. Perhaps they are simply weary of the sameness of eternal torture." He gave a very small smile at that. Harry did not return it. "They seek more opportunity for suffering in your world. And they are summoning their means to cross over."

Kirsty stifled another cough. "How's this your fault?" she asked, her voice muffled. She'd crossed her arms on the table and buried her face in them. 

"I sowed the seeds of dissent. But I was not there to tend to them." 

Harry frowned, furrowing his brow. "What?"

"I assure you, this was not my intent. I had in mind to cultivate a new order. But now, without guidance, it has blossomed into something monstrous."

"You can't call them off or anything?"

"I'm sorry to say that I hold no longer hold any authority in that regard."

"Well," Harry said. "We're fucked."

* * *

The waiter, emboldened by the lack of a scuffle at their table, had elected to kick them out after twenty more minutes with nothing else ordered. Harry had taken up valuable real estate in the diner long before either of them had ever arrived, and now their time was up. Kirsty had paid, leaving a sizeable tip, her shaking hands fumbling with her wallet. The trio was standing outside now, hiding from the storm beneath the diner's striped awning while Harry waited for a cab. Elliot had taken off his coat and draped it around Kirsty's shoulders. It enveloped her almost completely, and Harry was surprised at how small she looked. She leaned against the Hell Priest's side, shivering, his arm around her waist.

Fucking weird, that was. Kirsty Cotton and her Cenobite boyfriend. If there were ever a sign that all Hell was about to break loose, this was it.

"I'll keep the rest of the Harrowers updated," Harry said. "seems like we'll have work to do. They're not going to like you though, I can guarantee that."

Elliot looked tired, dark circles beneath those piercing blue eyes. "I would be rather concerned if they did."

"Mm." Harry nodded. That was unsettling. He cast a look towards the street. Mercifully, the cab had shown up. "Well, looks like my ride is here. Keep in touch."

  


"Keep in touch," Kirsty mumbled. God, she looked like death warmed over, didn't she?

  


And with a parting glance, Harry D'Amour was gone. 

"Kirsty," Elliot began, his tone gentle.

"Mm?" She nuzzled her head against his chest.

"Would he have been the friend you mentioned earlier?"

"Wha' friend?"

"The one who bought you the book?"

She looked up. Weary blue eyes sparkled with mischief, and she laughed. "Yeah. Yeah, that was him. Was fucking funny, too."

"I'll have to send him my sincere thanks, then." He caressed the top of her head. "Come now. Let's get you home."

And together, they walked out into the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my eternal gratitude to BlackRoseMagick for beta editing this chapter!!!!!!!! thank you so much for salvaging my mad, sleepless scribblings. i owe so you much! and thank you so, so much to everyone who has left a comment. i seriously cannot even begin to express how much that helps -- a comment seriously makes my day.  
as always, thank you so much if you've made it this far!! there'll be more to come, although it may have to wait until next week. here's hoping i can upload it sooner, but we shall see! until then, take care!!


	5. delirium.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "so we passed onward o'er the filthy mixture  
of shadows and of rain with footsteps slow,  
touching a little on the future life."  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! sorry for the delay fdsalksdkfladsjk  
this chapter's pretty angsty and was honestly pretty painful to write dfklasjfalkds so um,,, enjoy?

Black clouds were rolling in on the horizon, carried along by a brisk wind. The walk back had taken significantly longer than the trip there, as Kirsty had become quite averse to walking. The rain lashed at them, cold droplets slicing at their skin like knives. Elliot gritted his teeth, keeping Kirsty tight to his side. The rain was pooling rapidly in the streets and each car that barrelled by splashed up filthy water at them. Kirsty, closest to the street, never recoiled from it. She did not have the energy.

It would have been absolutely miserable for Elliot to have been left homeless over the past two days without a makeshift tent to shield himself from the weather. He had endured worse, but he had little desire to do it again, and he was immensely grateful for Kirsty's charity. He turned to look at her now, squinting through the rain. Her eyes were closed, her teeth chattering. Elliot had been practically dragging her along. Were he certain that she could hold on, he would've carried her on his back. But now, as she shuffled forward, shivering violently, he wasn't so sure.

The cigarette he'd tucked behind his ear was now completely sodden. He shook his head and let it fall to the pavement. He'd buy himself a pack later in the week. Kirsty stumbled on a curb, and if not for the arm around her waist she would've fallen. He steadied her and coaxed her forward, casting one wary glance at the black clouds looming behind them. Time was of the essence.

The rain was biting against his bare arms as they approached the apartment complex, and it was with a shudder that he picked Kirsty up under the arms and set her inside the lobby.

He squinted against the fluorescent light. The lobby was a dry, bright haven, warm after the bitter cold of the rain outside. "Kirsty," he said, voice low. "May I have the keys?"

She whined in response, quivering. She was absolutely drenched, her hair nearly black with rainwater, her white shirt completely transparent. Already the dripping of her hair and clothes had created a sizable puddle beneath her.

He sighed. "Forgive me," he said, and went through her pockets. There they were, cold metal against her thigh, trapped in the tiny front pocket of her slacks. She choked out a sob at his touch. "Hush," he whispered, fishing out the keys. "Hush, I'm here."

She collapsed against him then, deadweight almost knocking him off balance, and he quickly wrapped his arms around her.

"Kirsty!" he hissed, his voice low and sharp-edged with alarm. But she was completely out, her breathing shallow and rapid, head lolling downwards. Wasting no time, hoisted her into a fireman's carry. It was undignified, but he needed at least one hand to work the doors. Her apartment was on the fourth floor, and quickly, with an aura of purpose, he called the elevator. It could not come quickly enough, and impatience, a most unfamiliar and unpleasant feeling, bubbled up inside of him. He had always been calm and cool under pressure, methodical and analytical. He had for so long been the epitome of self-control. But now, with Kirsty unconscious over his shoulder, he found himself clenching the ring of keys in his fist, metal teeth digging into his flesh hard enough to draw blood.

The soft 'ding' of the elevator arriving was, at that moment, perhaps the most wonderful sound he'd ever heard.

He set her down once he'd pressed the button; not because she was heavy, but because he'd hoped she would stir soon. But if the fainting spell had passed, she made no sign, the only sounds in the elevator the quiet whirring of machinery and her shallow breathing. He had seen so much worse in his time. Unfathomable, unspeakable, indescribable horrors. He'd watched the human body be pushed to its limits and beyond and had hardly batted an eyelash at it.

But the sight of her still chilled him to the bone.

There. The elevator stilled. The doors opened with a soft and all too cheerful chime, and he picked her up again and hoisted her onto his hip. Her legs moved to wrap around him weakly -- some instinctual motion, maybe, but a sign that she was, on some level, aware.

Even soaked in the cold, she was hot against his skin, fire chasing through her bloodstream, heart hammering against her chest. The exertion of her day had worsened her far more than the cold of the rain had helped, and now, with her immune system at a low, she was losing the battle.

"Kirsty," he whispered again, sticking the key in the lock. There was blood streaming down his arm now, he realised, mixing with the rainwater.

The dark had always been a source of familiar warmth to him, but now the apartment seemed desolate and lifeless, sheets of rain rattling the windows, thunder crackling outside. Despite the irony of it, he'd have to get her into a cold shower. Something needed to be done to lower her temperature. With all the detached precision of a clinician, he laid her down on the floor and removed her wallet and phone from her pockets. There wasn't time to strip her of her clothes, aside from the coat still draped around her shoulders, he decided, and quickly picked her back up again and brought her into the bathroom. She was limp in his arms, limbs hanging, trembling from her core. He switched on the shower, keeping the lights off, and gently set her down, propped up against the tile. Water spilt out from the shower through the open curtain and onto the floor; he'd clean it up later.

"Kirsty!" he growled, hands cupping her face. "Kirsty." She was shivering more violently now; her eyelids fluttered but stayed closed. He let go, and her head lolled to one side. They were both shivering now -- her, wracked with fever chills, him, physiologically betrayed by sustained exposure to the cold. Human bodies were so weak. Kirsty, human, was so weak.

There was a strange and bitter taste in his mouth. One he knew well but had never associated with himself.

Fear.

Was this beyond the scope of what he could do? Could he not reclaim Kirsty from the darkness that afflicted her alone?

He gritted his teeth. No. She would be fine. There was no use entertaining such dreadful speculations. She would be fine. He would make sure that she was fine.

With something that, in a lesser man's voice, would've sounded like desperation, he grabbed her shoulders and barked her name, his nails digging into her skin through the thin fabric of her shirt:

"_Kirsty!_"

Her eyelids fluttered, opened. Glassy eyes, unfocused, pupils blown, met his. Relief coursed through him. He lowered his head.

And she screamed.

* * *

There was blood on the floor, red and bright, too bright, and more was raining down on her, hot fat droplets glowing scarlet in the dark. There was a sound, an unearthly wailing -- was that her?

And there was pain; pain ripping through her shoulders, something digging into flesh, and she knew with a sudden, horrible certainty that her time had come. Those were hooks embedded in her skin, and they must've been attached to chains, ready to pull at her and tear her apart in a fantastic explosion of flesh and meat and fat and bone. They were going to tear her body apart first, she knew, and then her soul would be next.

They had promised that, all those years ago, and she could hear it echoing now, the memory sharp, the voice as vivid as the day she'd heard it:

_We'll tear your soul apart!_

And they had come to make good on that promise. _He _had come to make good on that promise himself, and he was before her now, his halo of pins gleaming in the shadows, blood running down the gridded lines etched into his face, streaking down his jaw, dripping off of the pins. His eyes were black, lightless pools; his teeth glinted in the dark.

She thrashed despite herself, knowing the motion would rip at her, would send hot, electric pain through her as the hooks tugged and pulled. And it did. She cried out, a guttural, strangled cry, twisting and straining against her bonds.

And no -- no, she had been wrong, terribly wrong, for it was not that angel of death but Frank before her, skinless and oozing viscera, undead once more, come to enact his revenge. He leered at her, a switchblade in his hand, and a voice she'd prayed she'd never hear again spoke, honeyed with false familiarity:

_Come to Daddy..._

She shut her eyes against the sight, coffee and bile rising in her throat, her blood cold -- so cold, so cold -- in her veins. She swallowed. She wasn't ready for this, wasn't ready for death, not yet--

The chains jerked her wildly; violently, violently she was being shaken, and she cracked her head against the wall. Her eyes, now open, burned sharp with tears. Bile spewed from her mouth, and she gagged again when she saw him.

Trevor, his brains blown out, his corpse waterlogged and broken, bloated, and misshapen. Fury blazed in his eyes, the anger she'd learned so quickly to fear when he'd come home on drunken nights. She could see where the bullet had entered -- the bullet she'd sent, but the other side of his head was far, far worse. A massive exit wound had taken half his face, shattered bits of skull caught on his shoulder like shrapnel. Grey matter was falling from the gaping hole in his head, falling to the floor with a dull splat and rapidly turning pink as it oxidised.

_You did this to me. We had everything, Kirsty. We had everything, Kirsty, and you fucking threw it away!_

She sobbed wordlessly, unable to look away. There were hooks latched in her face now, and if she turned her head her face would rip in two. And so she watched on in cold horror as his skin began to bubble, flesh and muscle boiling against bone, blackening and melting, fourth-degree burns charring and crisping and bursting, fragments of what had once been Trevor flying into the air, great chunks of what was now more ash than skin striking her. She squinted against it, but it was too much. If she weren't bound by the puncturing hooks, she would've covered her mouth. But she couldn't, couldn't, and, transfixed in horror, she watched on and coughed and coughed, trying desperately to get these bits of what had once been Trevor out of her lungs. But each desperate cough and convulsion meant that the chains grew tauter, and, tears streaming down her face, hyperventilating, she realised that this was the end.

What was left of Trevor snarled at her, its eyes now a molten viscous fluid, bubbling out of the eyeholes of that broken skull, mixing with the blood that still rained down, streaking pink down the bone. He lunged towards her, the gorey combination spattering her face. It burned like acid, and she could feel it eating away great holes in her face, and she screamed. Her voice was too hoarse now for any real sound to come out, and true hysteria shaking her to her core, she gasped and wheezed.

"Please," she whispered. "Please, just let me die."

It laughed, a harsh, grating sound. The walls were melting now, too, tile collapsing in the dim light, and, lit by the glow of that sticky, stinking blood rain, she saw the facade fall away, like a set being stricken. The Labyrinth. She was back in the Labyrinth, cold stone walls arching up to a starless, clear black sky.

She was already dead.

* * *

He let go the moment she began to scream, running his hands over her hair, trying to soothe her with his touch, to undo the damage he'd done. "Kirsty," he said, tone heavy with sorrow. "Please. It's me, that's all." But she could not be consoled, and with frigid despair sinking in his chest he realised his presence may not be comforting to her. Was he the source of her hysteria, her panic? This was not the first time he had frightened her since his transfiguration. Could she never trust him, never see him as anything more than a nightmare being?

Through her delirious eyes right now, what did she see? Her eyes fluttered closed again, her head lolling, her body gone completely limp. She was bent double now, breathing hitching ragged, and he grabbed her by the shoulders again.

He was losing her.

He couldn't bear to lose her.

He did the only thing his exhausted mind could think to do -- he shook her unresponsive frame, trying to jolt her awake again. "Kirsty. Look at me," he said, sternly, setting his jaw to try to hide the tremor in his voice. But no, _no_ \-- she was so limp and so light, far frailer than he had expected, and backwards she went, her head hitting the tile wall with a sickening _thwack_. Her eyes opened, pupils were still blown, now so wide there was hardly any iris visible. She vomited then, and he felt weak with disbelief and regret. A concussion. He'd concussed her. All his feeble attempts to help had only caused pain. Suffering. That was all he was capable of. Inflicting suffering.

And she coughed and whispered, pleaded, begged for death.

The words were agonising; his heart shattered.

He had never experienced or inflicted anything as dreadful as this. He was too tired for fear and self-loathing to manifest as anger, and he found himself drowning in simple despair.

What was he, if not death itself? He hugged her tight, pulling her close to his chest. He could not give her such mercy of unbeing, but he could give her himself. Completely, wholly, all he had to offer. He was hers.

"Kirsty, Kirsty, Kirsty..."

He was whispering her name now, again and again, the words working their way past his lips of their own accord as he pulled her close, rocking her in his arms, the two of them shivering against each other in the darkness.

How long they stayed like that, he did not know. Eventually, his own teeth began to chatter, and he bit his lip hard in an attempt to control it, lest the sound trigger hallucinations of the Gash for her. But she did not scream. They passed an eternity in that freezing darkness, each second stretching on longer than the last.

And then she moaned against him.

"Elliot?"

The word was slurred, followed by a low whimper. It was beautiful.

"Kirsty, K-Kirsty..."

All of his restraint, all of his self-control, came crumbling down before her, and he wept.

Something soft brushed against his cheek, and he opened his eyes. She was looking up at him, gaze unfocused, giving him a melancholy smile.

"Waste of... of good suffering?" she said, and for the first time in a hundred years, he sobbed.

She made a soft, quizzical noise. "Why are you crying?"

He kissed the top of her forehead. "K-Kirsty," he murmured, his voice shaking. "The woe that your death would have wrought would have s-sent me willingly to seek out the wrath of the divine. Even now, an eternity of pure isolation and agony, d-devoid of pleasure in _any_ form, could never be punishment enough for what I have done."

"English?" She wrapped her arms around his neck.

"You s-scared me," he breathed, "and I love you."

"Oh," she said, eyes wide.

He smiled sadly. "I don't expect you to feel the same way. Shall we discuss this l-later?"

She nodded, and her breath hitched with the sudden pain. "My head hurts."

"I know," he said. "I'm sorry. Let's get you c-cleaned up, and then you can sleep. Would you like that?"

"Uh-huh." She nodded and winced again. "It's cold."

She was legitimately cold now, he saw, her lips faintly blue. Her temperature had fallen, the fever mild now. The water had won out.

He reached up and turned the shower slightly up. He wanted nothing more than to wrench it to its highest setting but didn't dare risk Kirsty's fragile health like that. It was slightly warmer than the rain outside, and therefore enough to stop his teeth from clattering together. She ducked her head, coughing, and caught sight of her shirt, now stained with vomit.

"Ew," she said. "What happened?"

"Do you remember?"

"No."

"May I undress you?"

"Okay. You too, though." He was about to ask what she meant, but she answered for him by tugging at his shirt, trying to pull it over his head. He let go of her very gently, waited to see if she could support herself settled against the wall, and yanked off his shirt.

"Like so?"

"Mm," she said. "Better."

He chuckled quietly. "I'm very glad to hear you think so." He brushed her hair out of her face, letting his fingers trail down the side of her face, and downward. He stopped at her collar and gingerly began to undo those buttons he'd so precisely done up before. There was nothing sexual about the ordeal. She was in no mind to consent, and he was far too tired to be interested. Modesty had been deeply ingrained in her, though, and she turned away, unable to look at him as he unhooked her bra. She shut her eyes when he unbuttoned her slacks, unable to face the situation.

"Y-your turn now," she commanded, eyes still closed.

He stood and peeled off wet denim. "Better?"

"Mhm..." she answered. "'M not looking, though." He smiled faintly. How prudish was she! For a woman who had once been married, she was surprisingly timid.

He found the soap and, with infinite care, washed her. She was in no shape to resist, and several times she began to nod off only to jerk back awake. There was no wound at the back of her head from the impact, but she still groaned when he felt the back of her head.

When he was finished, he turned the shower off and wrapped her in a towel. Emotional and physical exhaustion had made his limbs heavy, but he picked her up and carried her bridal style to the bed, navigating through the dark apartment easily. The sun had set and streetlamps glowed hazily through the rain. He tucked the duvet around her, and she snuggled into its softness, needing no prompting to pull it up to her chin.

"Goodnight," he murmured, petting her hair and climbing in beside her.

Outside: a peal of thunder. A crack of lighting, so loud that he almost missed it, the words on her lips no more than the faintest of whispers.

"Love you."

* * *

The rain had not let up by morning, and Kirsty awoke to a thunderclap. Her head ached something fierce, and it was with reluctance that she opened her eyes to see Elliot curled up beside her.

"Morning," she said. He did not stir. She repeated it, this time louder.

Groggily, he opened one very blue eye. "Good morning," he said, his voice scratchy with sleep.

She snorted and rolled over to look at the alarm clock on the nightstand. 9:47. They both had slept in quite late. She supposed they'd both needed it. What time had she gone to bed last night? She couldn't remember.

He cleared his throat, catching her attention again. "How are you feeling?"

"Like shit," she said. "But a bit better."

"How very glad I am to hear that," he said, sighing.

She rubbed her eyes and sat up, pushing the duvet aside. She looked down at her naked form and over to him, eyes widening.

"Oh, _hell_ fucking no. We didn't -- we _didn't_, did we?"

"No," Elliot said, deadpan. "We did not."

"Are you sure we didn't?"

He scoffed and opened both of his eyes just enough to narrow them at her. "I can promise you that we most certainly did not."

"Alright," she relented and yawned. "Aren't you going to get up?"

He raised his eyebrows, impressed by her imprudence. "So you are feeling better. If you insist."

"It's almost ten," she amended hastily, "That's al-- augh!" She shielded her face with her hands. "Okay, I know it's almost ten, but it's too goddamn early in the morning for me to see your dick!"

He snorted. "You asked me to get up. I complied." He turned around, though, and put on pyjama bottoms.

"Are you decent?" she asked, making an exaggeratedly abhorred face.

"Yes."

She lowered her hands. "Decent but not dressed. Not going out today?"

Elliot tilted his head at her. "I'd imagine my clothes are still drenched."

"Drenched?"

"What do you remember of yesterday?"

She wracked her brain, worrying on her bottom lip in concentration. "Uhm... Harry? And then you showed up."

"And after that?"

Kirsty frowned. "Nothing."

"Hm."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"I'd imagine it's for the best. You were unwell; you hit your head."

Ah. So that explained the dull, aching pressure. She crossed her arms over her chest. "Great."

He hummed a soft acknowledgement of her sarcasm. "It may be best if we keep the lights off today."

"Why?" she asked, throwing off the duvet and walking over to the light switch. The bruising along her back and side had faded to a sickly yellow-green in places. She flipped on the light. The pain was immediate and immense, searing through her white-hot, and she sank to her knees. She could still see it through her eyelids, and it was with immense relief that she heard him walk over and flick off the lights.

"That would be why," he said, helping her up.

She grimaced. The pain lingered, and her headache was far worse now. "Remind me to listen to you next time."

"Mm. Breakfast?"

"Yes, please."

"Coffee?"

She made a face. "No, thanks." For some reason, the thought of coffee made her stomach flip. The nausea subsided, though, and she found herself still hungry. Had she eaten yesterday? She couldn't remember. She asked him as much, and he frowned.

"No. I don't believe you did. I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" she asked, raising an eyebrow in disbelief. "Why?"

He put his hands on her waist, just above her hips. "I've failed you as a caretaker."

"Caretaker?" she rolled her eyes. "I'm a gr--"

"A grown woman, yes," he finished.

She grinned. "Let me get dressed. Then breakfast it is."

* * *

She almost choked on her toast when he told her.

"What do you _mean_ you were offered a job!?"

He shrugged. "It is hardly a guarantee. I will have to follow up, and it is no more than an apprenticeship."

Kirsty shook her head. "I can't believe this. I leave you alone for an hour and you pick up a job offer and a smoking habit."

"Do you mind?"

"What, you working at a tattoo shop? Nah. I'm glad that you've found something to do."

He coughed lightly. "Do you mind if I smoke?"

"Oh." She popped the last bite of toast into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. "I guess not. Just not in the house."

"Noted."

"You better get hired on," she said. "You're not gonna believe cigarette prices these days."

He frowned. "Cigarette prices may be the least of our problems soon."

"Your problem," she corrected, pushing her plate away and resting her face on her hand. "But yeah. How long do you think we have before it's hell on earth?"

Elliot stifled a yawn. For all the sleep he had gotten last night, he was still quite tired. "These factions may be determined, but the ability to collaborate is not a common trait among demons. I would estimate something around six months."

"So what do we do in the meantime?"

"In the meantime," he said, "I will do the dishes. You will rest. And, once the detective has spread the word to his colleagues, we will prepare."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to BlackRoseMagick for beta editing this chapter!!!!!! i cannot believe that you put up with me and my rubbish first drafts. seriously, i am beyond grateful. <3
> 
> and thank you to those of you who have left comments!!!!!!! your encouragement really means so much to me. :-)) 
> 
> there should be some fluff next chapter to make up for this dsfkjladsjflksadjf until then thank you so much for reading!!!!!


	6. adrift.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> actions, it seems, have consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> asfjasLKJFDSLKJ this chapter is LONG overdue and i'm SO sorry

In his century of Cenobitical existence, Elliot had picked up the valuable skill of perfect memorisation. He had a veritable library of books stored in his head and had spent the last hour comparing his mental copy of the _Tresstree Sangre Vinniculum_ with Kirsty's impostor copy while she rested. There were hardly any similarities between the two, and he made a mental note to remind her to never follow any of the magical workings detailed within. Numerous key components had been left out of those few incantations and procedures which had any basis in reality, and the results would no doubt be lethal to any practitioner. He wondered what sort of chaotic entity had compiled this and sold it to a publisher for a quick buck. He understood sadism, yes, but needless sadism on this meagre scale seemed to be both pointless and destructive mischief. He had been wondering whether it was infernal work or the wrath of a gatekeeping magician who wished to punish anyone too inexperienced to know what they were doing when he fell asleep.

He had no recollection of falling asleep, and it was quite unlike him to do so, so suddenly, but perhaps it was unavoidable. The rain had quarantined them indoors, and despite his boundless patience and ability to entertain himself, boredom had crept up, on him.

It was thus that Kirsty found him, sitting upright with a book still open in his lap, a page held between his fingers.

"Hey," she whispered, kneeling before him. Gently, she pried the book out of his hands and set it on the floor. How he could see well enough to read in this rain-grey dimness was beyond her.

That sent a pang of guilt through her. It was her fault they couldn't turn on the lights, wasn't it? Kirsty scowled at herself. Guilt was rapidly being chased by frustration. She felt useless, and she hated feeling useless. She'd spent half the day sleeping, bedbound by headache, pharmaceutic drowsiness, and fever.

It fucking sucked.

She'd had bizarre, vivid dreams. Lamotrigine did that to you. They'd been just unpleasant enough that she hesitated to call them nightmares. Another woman might've classified them as such. But Kirsty had grown desensitised to abhorrence in all its forms after Ludovico Street, after the Channard Institute, after Trevor, after her work with the Harrowers... it seemed that her life had revolved around tragedy and travesty for more than a decade, and it had left her with an awfully high tolerance for the disturbing. It still fucked her up, but she was a lot better at filing those emotions away now. She'd done so upon waking and let the memory of her dreams fade into hazy obscurity. Still, it left her with a faint sense of unease, and she found herself wanting for Elliot to fill the silence, to distract her from her thoughts.

He was silent now, though, the only sounds in the apartment the gentle rasp of his breathing and the rain pattering against the windowpanes.

There was a funny sort of dissonance between the Elliot before her and the Cenobite who had responded to her summons in that hospital room so many years ago. He looked so peaceful here. Where he had once been menacing, he now was subdued. What, she wondered, had she done to deserve him?

Kirsty crawled onto the couch next to him, curling up so that her head rested against his thigh. She doubted he'd mind. He was warm and soft and smelled of incense and iron and her soap. She laid there, content, nightmares forgotten until she too fell asleep.

* * *

She wasn't sure how long he'd been awake, but he'd hardly moved.

He had a hand in her hair, on her forehead. "Mm," she murmured, biting back a yawn, "Your hand's warm."

Kirsty could hear the soft rustle of clothing against couch cushion as he turned to look at her. "On the contrary. You're warm. My hands are rather cold."

"Leech." Eyes still closed, she gave him a small smile. "That's okay. You can have some of my warmth. I've got plenty to spare."

He ruffled her hair. "Your generosity is unprecedented, Kirsty."

She shifted and stretched, extending one leg at a time, letting the stiffness of sleep melt away. The couch wasn't bad, but it wasn't nearly as comfortable as the bed. Much more of this and she'd be sore. "We're really gonna sleep the day away?"

His laughter was a low, quiet rumbling sound in his chest. "I'd much rather do that than let you put yourself in harm's way."

"Harm's w-- Are you talking about yesterday?" She opened her eyes, frowning. It was too fucking early for this.

Well. It was noon. But she'd only just woken up, and therefore she decided it was still absolutely too fucking early.

"I'd originally meant that you could seriously injure yourself with too much activity. But yes. Now we're talking about yesterday."

She pushed his hand away and sat up, looking him in the eye. She'd become acutely aware of the throbbing in her head. "Are you... actually upset with me?"

Blankly, he pushed her hair out of her face. "Your impudence concerned me. I wish you'd not gone out."

"B-but you--!" she spluttered. The memory was hazy, but she most certainly recalled him standing up to Harry.

"I will defend your autonomy until my dying breath, Kirsty. But I am entitled to my opinion."

He dropped his hand abruptly. There was something sharp in that last word.

"You were worried," she breathed. "Really worried. That's right?"

He said nothing, still face belying the turmoil of thoughts behind those blue eyes.

"You were!" Kirsty threw her arms around him, burying her face into the crook of his neck. "Fuck, I'm so sorry."

She could feel him stiffen, breath catching in his throat. "You are very lucky, Kirsty, that you cannot remember what happened last night. For all I have lived, I do not think I will ever experience something so dreadful." She nuzzled against him. He was warm. Almost uncomfortably so, although she chalked that up to her fever. Why hadn't she cuddled up to him like this when she'd had such bad chills?

Oh, right. She had.

Was it strange, she wondered, for them to have grown this close this quickly? She'd tried to walk away from him the night she'd found him. She'd tried to leave him entirely out of her life.

And now here they were, unable to imagine a world without each other. Here he was, frozen with melancholy at the memory of her misery. Hadn't he wanted her dead, decades ago?

If it wasn't so easy to hang onto him like this, she would've been more skeptical.

They needed each other now.

"I'm sorry," she murmured into his shoulder, her lips cool against his skin. She pulled away. His eyes were bright with fear. Whatever had happened last night, he didn't seem to enjoy remembering it. She wouldn't push the issue, she decided.

Elliot sighed. She ran a hand down the side of his face, over the thin ridges of scars.

"Do you want some coffee? I can make you coffee."

He blinked. "That would be lovely. Thank you."

She pulled her hand away with reluctance and made her way to the kitchen. She moved carefully, slowly, trying to keep the dizziness of exertion at bay. She may not have been well, but he was clearly still overtired, and it was only right to repay him somehow.

It was nice to be able to make herself useful. It was rather a struggle, trying to perform such a simple task, and it took twice as long as it should have, but the sense of accomplishment she felt placing a cup of coffee into Elliot's hands made it more than worth it. He looked up at her, gratitude shining in those weary blue eyes, and she felt her heart melt. She flung herself onto the couch, snuggling up beside him. She closed her eyes.

"Thank you," he said. The words were a low purr.

She nuzzled her head against his shoulder. "Mm, you're welcome."

"You should rest." He ran one hand through her hair, letting his palm rest against her back. It was a warm, comforting weight. "In the times to come, it will be best if you are strong."

Kirsty bit back a scoff. "Didn't you say we had, what, six months? I'm not going to be sick forever."

"Yes," he said humourlessly. "But if you injure yourself so severely again... The repercussions can last for months."

"Oh." She hadn't considered that. Maybe it was just the concussion, but she really hadn't given too much thought to how she felt at all, aside from the immediate headache. Sure, she felt a little woozy, but with the lights off and Elliot at her side, she was more or less fine. Physically, she was comfortable, but the tension between them was unpleasant. She changed the subject.

"Tell me more about that job offer."

She could feel him shift his weight at that, and she listened as he took a sip of coffee. "It was all rather informal. I believe my... skills will be applicable in that environment."

The words were out of her mouth before she could even process what she was asking. "Could you pierce me?"

A beat of silence. When he answered, it was with a skeptical amusement, a faintly playful edge to his voice. "I could. Not now, mind you. I'm woefully lacking in supplies, and I do think it best that we wait until you are healthy. I would prefer not to cause you undue suffering." He sucked in a breath through his teeth. "But if you later wish to go through with it, I would be more than happy to oblige. Where were you thinking?"

She bit her lip, frowning. She hadn't thought that far ahead. Although she wasn't terribly wanting for money, there was a certain level of professionalism she had to maintain, especially at her age. She hadn't begun approaching middle-age, but she was old enough that some things just seemed inappropriate. It'd have to be somewhere no one could see.

Was that true, though? Or had that just been a set of values impressed on her by Trevor and the countless other men who had come before, the ones who had pushed for a normal, domestic life? She certainly wasn't living a normal life now. And if Elliot and Tiffany were right and all hell was about to break loose, did it really matter?

If they couldn't combat what was to come, did _anything_ really matter?

"I'm not sure," she admitted. "What do you think?"

He sucked a breath in through his teeth. "That, my dear Kirsty, is a very intimate question."

_Oh_ . The inflicting of pain, the piercing of flesh -- was this _sexual_ for him? He answered for her, as though he'd read her mind.

"It is a very personal decision. You are most willful; no doubt you will develop opinions after some consideration."

Ah. So if it was sexual, he was doing a very good job of not letting on. Really, she expected no less -- the man was the model of restraint.

He failed to stifle a yawn.

"You're still tired?" She nuzzled her head against his shoulder. "Guess I should've made stronger coffee."

"I appreciate the gesture nonetheless." She could hear the faint smile in his voice.

"Hey!" she laughed. "It's not that bad, is it?"

He hummed and set the mug on the floor in response. The movement meant that he broke away from her. She frowned and opened her eyes.

Elliot straightened and met her confused gaze. "Come," he purred, and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, pulling her close against his bare chest. It was smooth, unscarred, and --

"Warm." She pressed her cheek against his sternum. "You're really warm. Like... like me." The pressure in her head ramped up a tick, and she winced. "Fuck."

His hand was in her hair now, gentle fingers tangled in brown locks. She closed her eyes and bit her lip. That wasn't helping, but she appreciated his affection too much to ask him to stop.

"A consequence of mortality."

She frowned. "If I got you sick, I'm gonna be real fuckin' pissed at myself."

He made a soft sound of disapproval. "Kirsty. I assure you, I'm fine."

Gritting her teeth, she pulled away. Her head was throbbing now, and, as much as she wanted to vigorously shake her head in defiance, she had to settle for a grimace. She opened one eye but shut it quickly. "Humour me, damn it." She reached out, eyes still closed against the dim but unpleasant light, and blindly pressed her palm to his forehead. It took a few tries; she smushed her hand against his cheek first and could feel him raise his eyebrows in amusement. But she followed the grid of scars up and finally managed it.

"The back of your hand is far more sensitive to temperature," he pointed out.

She frowned but obeyed. He let her stay like that for several long seconds, ever patient.

It was with a dejected sigh that she let her hand drop. "I can't tell," she admitted. "I'm not sure if it's you or me that's hot. Wish I had a fucking thermometer. My perception's all warped."

"Does it make a difference?"

Kirsty tilted her head. "What?"

"I said, does it make a difference? So long as I am still well enough to care for you, I will gladly endure all manner of unpleasantness."

She just barely resisted the urge to swat at him. "You have _got_ to start taking care of yourself."

"Kirsty, please."

She folded her arms. "Nope. That's it. You're gonna stay away from me. And I'm going to quarantine myself."

"What good will that do," he asked, "if you have already infected me?"

She opened her eyes just enough to glare at him. There was amusement sparkling in those blue eyes.

"I don't want to make it worse!"

He sighed. "I don't believe it works that way."

"Ugh! I still can't even tell if you're sick or not!"

"It is inconsequential.”

Irritation was mounting in her chest, building with every throb of her head. And then there were tears stinging her eyes, and she burst out: “Why are you _like _ this?!” She wiped her hands against her eyes, streaking frustrated tears across her reddened face. “Cut the martyr bullshit, okay?! God _damn_ it!”

Elliot reached out to her, to soothe her after her outburst, but she pushed him away. “Just stop it!” She shook her head, gasping at the pain, and scrambled to her feet. The motion made her head swim, and she put her head in her hands, fingertips pressed hard against her temples. “I’m fucking _miserable_, okay?! Fucking miserable! Don’t say it doesn’t fucking matter! Inconse-fucking-quential, my ass. I’m going back to bed.”

She turned and stormed back towards the bedroom, her hands gripping at her hair now, fingernails digging into her scalp.

“I’m sorry,” he called, pitiful lament heavy in his low voice, “that my neglect troubled you s--”

“Fucking save it!” she snapped, not bothering to look at him. She set her jaw, exhaling forcefully. “Go be a brooding tortured soul somewhere fucking else.”

Had she looked, she would have seen him nod in solemn silence. But Kirsty had already thrown herself onto the bed and yanked the covers over her head. She bit down on the knuckle of her index finger; all the better to muffle her sobs. She didn’t fucking want this. She _hated_ being sick, _hated _ being stuck playing the poor useless victim, fucking _hated_ that he wouldn’t just take care of his goddamn self -- couldn’t he fucking see how much he mattered to her? How much of a slap in the face it was to see him brush off her concern? Couldn’t he just put himself first for one fucking second?

Under the duvet, she trembled, throat choked with angry, irate sobs.

She did not hear the door open and close, nor the gentle clicking of the lock.

* * *

He had been methodical in his reaction. Elliot was no stranger to compartmentalising his emotions, and he did so with cold, detached ease.

Kirsty wanted him gone. He would leave.

He finished the coffee; it was only polite. He washed the mug, returned it to the cabinet. Yesterday's clothes had been hung over the shower bar to dry. His coat, soaked through, was still on the bathroom floor. He dressed, the fabric still faintly damp and stiff with rain, and folded the borrowed pyjamas. His boots still squished with every step, waterlogged. It would not matter shortly.

There was no good way for him to express his gratitude. It was better not to feel it, best not to feel at all, lest guilt get in the way. And so he felt nothing as he pulled a crisp twenty from Kirsty’s slim wallet. He’d repay her eventually, once this apprenticeship paid off.

He did not look back as he shut the door behind him.

The hallway of the apartment complex was bright and cold. The fluorescent light was not pleasant, but it rang oddly familiar. There was something about its unnatural hue that recalled home, LED leeching all the saturation from his surroundings.

He moved slowly, silently in the wan light, finding the stairs and traversing them with unfeeling ease, for fear that the sound of the elevator might unravel the careful numbness he'd cultivated.

The clouds still spewed forth unseasonable chill, and it did not take long for him to grow sodden again. He ducked into a convenience store, dripping across the tile, and made his way to the counter.

She hadn’t been kidding about cigarette prices.

He had ten borrowed dollars to his name by the time he’d left, and he’d rapidly discovered that cheap lighters and cheap smokes made for an unpleasant time. He stood on the street corner, cupping the flame, trying to shield it from the wind. He took several long drags, sweet inhalations, trying to spend the cigarette before the downpour extinguished it. He would not buy this brand again.

He crushed the filter beneath the sole of his boot and carried on.

* * *

“Fuck.”

That was the first word out of her mouth upon waking, the fricative formed before she’d even opened her eyes. She’d dreamt of Elliot, and now the bed beside her was empty. She’d gone off on him, hadn’t she? Oh, god. What a fucking mess. Now she’d have to go and apologise.

“Elliot?” she groaned, pushing the covers back from her head. The grey, watery light was more than she’d bargained for, and she scrunched her eyes up tightly with a low inward moan. There was that headache back again. She laid there, supine, for a few minutes. But he did not come.

Well, he was hardly at her beck and call. But she'd grown used to his attentiveness, and usually, he would be by her side by now. That was odd.

Maybe he was asleep. Or maybe just hadn’t heard.

Reluctantly, she staggered to her feet, biting hard down on her lower lip. Standing was a goddamn chore.

Kirsty pressed the palm of her hand to her own forehead. Was she still running a fever? She couldn’t tell. _No __–_ wait _–__ back of the hand._ He’d told her off for that earlier. She flipped her hand over and sighed. She still couldn’t tell. She wasn’t sure why she’d bothered.

Admittedly, she didn’t feel great. Was she mostly lucid? Yes. But healthy? Hell no.

The living area was empty, tidy and devoid of all signs of Elliot. The books of hers he’d mocked earlier had been reshelved, and the kitchen bore no evidence that he’d once been there – not even a coffee cup in the sink.

Nothing.

The thought was irrational, but it bubbled up all the same.

_Had he-- had he ever--?_

Panic began to rise in her chest, breath quickening, and it was with a pounding heart that she threw open the refrigerator door.

_There_. There were still eggs there. She hadn’t bought those herself. He had existed.

He was real.

So where was he?

"Elliot?" she called out again. Her voice sounded thin and weak in the desolate gloom. She took a few shaky breaths, trying to calm her frantic pulse. There was no response.

She'd been abandoned.

Phone. She needed to find her phone. The sudden solitude was going to undo her at this rate. Where the fuck was it? Where the fuck had he put it? She couldn't remember. Why the fuck couldn't she remember?

_Oh God, oh fuck. _Panic was setting in properly -- she couldn't breathe, just gasped for air in short shallow breaths, and her cheeks felt numb. It was gone and he was gone and she was --

No, no, there it was. _Fuck_, there it was. On the bathroom counter, next to her wallet. She reached for it with shaking hands and missed, knocking it off the counter. It skittered across the floor, and she dove after it. Lying on the damp tile, trembling, she could hardly dial the numbers.

Her eyes prickled. She could feel her throat closing up, and the words came out tight and strained.

"Harry? He's gone."

* * *

_Go be a brooding tortured soul somewhere fucking else, _Kirsty had commanded.

How easy that would be to obey if he were inclined to feel enough to properly brood. The city was host enough to a variety of sanctuaries for the self-pitying sap. Crouched under bridges, perched on precipitous rooftops, tucked away in dreary cafes with notebooks full of edgy poetry, the miserable found their homes. But melancholy required feeling.

And Elliot was most unpoetically numb.

The rain poured on, freezing cold, soaking him well and truly to the bone.

He kept walking.

* * *

Voicemail. She'd been met with his voicemail at first. She'd called back thrice since, every hour on the hour, and had well and truly given up by hour four when her phone rang.

The detective was none too pleased.

"Look, sweetheart, I just landed. I'm at the airport now. I don't know what the fuck you want me to do."

"I don't -- _Fuck_, I'm sorry, Harry."

"Aw, shit. Don't start that. Don't start crying."

She scrubbed at her eyes, but to no avail. She'd been crying for hours and had looped around from panic to dull shock to panic again. The tears were coming unbidden now, and their flow could not be restrained. "I'm sorry -- _fuck_ \-- I don't know why I called."

"You called to let me know that you managed to lose our only real lead on the pandemonium ahead. I appreciate the heads-up, Kirsty, but I'm not here to be emotional support."

"I know that, you bastard! Christ, Harry, it's not like I'm-- _hic_ \--trying to fucking break down like this. Fucking hell, don't you have contacts or some shit in the area?"

"You're my contact in the area, Kirsty. Look, maybe he just went to the store or some shit."

"It's been six hours."

The silence between them was tense, broken only by Kirsty's sobs. She'd stuck two fingers in her mouth to try to stifle them, but all that had done was drudge up old memories, and now she'd bit down hard, and she could taste blood and leather and rotting flesh and that cloying scent of death and vanilla and incense was choking her, too, and she couldn't breathe, couldn't scream, _couldn't_\--

"They're not going to reimburse me if I miss this connecting flight, you know."

She extracted her fingers from her mouth, and for a dizzying moment, she was all too aware of her surroundings as the flashback fell away. This cold tile, the weight of the phone in her hand, it didn't feel real.

"Look, if you're making me come back over a domestic dispute, I swear..."

"It's not--" She stopped, drawing in a shaky breath. "Harry. _Please_. I'll pay you back. We can't do this without him."

He groaned, but she knew she'd won. "Fine. Next flight I can take is, uhh... Looks like the 11:15. I won't get in until 3:00. Care if I crash at your place? I can't afford another hotel, especially not now."

Kirsty turned her head away from the phone, choking back a sob of gratitude. "Y-yeah. Absolutely. Thank you."

"You're usually more on top of this shit, Kirst. Pull yourself together by the time I show up. Bonus points if you can have some coffee ready and waiting. Or some whisky. Or both." He paused. She could hear the bustling of the airport on the other end of the line. "Yeah, actually. Both would be good."

"Thank you. I owe you one."

"No shit."

And he hung up.

* * *

And somehow, he had returned from whence he came. 

No, he had not had the fortune — the misfortune? — to find himself back in Leviathan's cold embrace, surrounded by the high, endless stone of the Labyrinth. Hell was closed to him, its familiar discomfort and Summoner's resonant beckon now nought more than a dream. Even now, he could hear those faint screams of torment, echoing eternal, the sinners' agonising lullaby. But they were nothing more than phantasmagorical manifestations, misinterpretations of his own longing. It gnawed at him. Now, without Kirsty here to give him purpose, the wistful yearning had begun to overtake him.

But no, he had not returned to the Labyrinth. All doors that lead there were closed now, and even if he could find his way through the dimensions and back into the dreary familiarity of Pyratha, aided by a Lament Configuration, nothing awaited him but true misery. Either he would be cast out again, or punished once more for his rash actions — true punishment, without pain. Death would not lie back in that land of funeral pallor light. It would be too sweet a comfort, too gentle a farewell, too welcome no matter how drawn out the process. 

Instead, his wanderings through this abysmal concrete jungle had led him once more to where he had been banished, the maze of alleyways, of broken buildings with peeling paint, the shantytown of tarps and cardboard along broken streets. He recognised the faces of a few miserable souls behind layers of makeshift outerwear, eyes dull with hunger. There was a soft keening sound, a faint whine of discomfort from the populous trapped out here in this torrential rain. The cold had gotten to them all, wan faces dripping with dampness, teeth chattering, lips and fingertips blue where they were exposed. Each soul was a sorry sight. Truly, it was pitiful. Perhaps in another life, it would've brought him something akin to amusement to see a whole colony of homeless suffering. But now, he felt nothing.

He stood awkwardly before the line of camped structures, head ducked, hands in the pockets of his coat, unshielded from the rain. Someone, eventually, called to him, voice feeble:

“You! I know you. You were here once, once you were here. Here, _hier_, here!"

Elliot looked up, squinting through the gloom, and caught sight of the man who had spoken. He was thin and old, with a young and wide-eyed boy at his side, no more than eight. They were both swaddled in old sheets, newspaper, and the remnants of a sleeping bag. They huddled beneath a stretched plastic tarp. The boy bit his lip and made to duck behind the man. 

“You, you! I know you, you know me, me and you and I know and here, you were here—“

Had the old man recognised him from earlier, from those first dismal, despondent days on Earth?

To their right, someone started singing, a high and wavering voice, all broken vibrato. “_You me knows what me you wants, me you knows what you me wants…_”

The man scoffed. “Stop, stop! You! You tell her silence, silence, _ja_ ? Silence, _kalmeer_!”

“_¡Cállate!”_ yelled the boy, but the vibrato only grew louder and more off-key. Elliot followed the sound, trudging through the whipping rain to the next sodden cardboard structure, and found the source.

The woman there too was old and had been made older by exposure to the elements. Whether there was a tangible explanation for her musical outburst or if her affliction was influenced by no more than a tenuous grasp on societal norms was impossible to discern — she had a woollen cap tugged over her eyes, and her erratic movements could have been just as easily attributed to shivering as they could’ve drug use or psychosis. She had quieted but not relented, and Elliot could hear her still. 

“_And it’s granted…”_

He knelt before her, the weight of his weariness suddenly all the more apparent as he sunk to his knees. Exhaustion now demanded to be felt. 

Out of his pocket, he fished a cigarette, and he offered it to her. Though he could not see her eyes, she clearly could see him, and she snatched it away after a moment's hesitation. From somewhere in her tangle of coverings, she pulled out a battered lighter. She lit the cigarette with shaking hands. She had on one glove; the skin, on the other hand, was paper-thin, and he watched the tendons move with dull fixation as she fumbled with the lighter. The smoke quieted her and gave her something new to preoccupy herself and with, and rapidly the complaining from those around her died down, leaving only the low and wretched whine of the half-drowned destitute.

The concrete was cold and hard and wet beneath him, and he set his jaw in an attempt not to grimace. He was rather used to unpleasantness, but that did not make this any less difficult. It seemed almost a blessing, then, when the woman patted the empty space on the cardboard shelter beside her, sweeping back plastic shopping bags to provide an empty space. He stared, and she patted the ground again, more firmly this time.

The message was clear. _Join me._

He nodded and clamoured to fold himself beside her, trying to put as much distance between the two of them as possible in this cramped space. Night was just beginning to fall, and he would not refute her charity. He could not afford to.

She exhaled grey plumes of smoke into the rapidly darkening sky. He watched, her face lit only by the tiny ember flicker of the butt of her cigarette in the purple shade of twilight. 

Against his better nature, he felt his head grow heavy, and with half-lidded eyes, he watched her flick off the building ash, smoke straight down to the filter, and stub out the meagre remnants on the pavement just outside her cardboard housing. His eyes closed after that, shutting themselves seemingly of their own volition, his body protesting against the warnings of his mind, and the last thing he heard was that dreadful vibrato again, quieter now, circling the same stanza again and again.

“_You me knows what me you wants_

_Me you knows what you me wants_

_And it’s granted…_”

That night, in his fitful sleep, he dreamt of Kirsty. 

* * *

Harry D'Amour arrived wearing the same clothes as the day before, looking twice as travel-weary with twice as much stubble. "Christ, Kirsty. You look like shit."

"Still?" she quipped and stepped aside to let him through the doorway. He was right, she knew. She'd caught a glimpse of herself in the darkened bathroom mirror, all red-rimmed eyes, tear-streaked cheeks, and pale, waxy skin. "Coffee's on the table. Help yourself."

"No whisky?" He flicked on the lights as he entered, and she bit her tongue to keep from gasping at the sudden, searing pain.

"All I've got is brandy. Will that do?"

He snorted in disdain. "Good enough. I'm pretty sure I'd drink rubbing alcohol if you put it in a shot glass right now."

"Nasty." She rolled her eyes and made to say more but turned away, suddenly taken by a coughing fit.

"Christ," he said, taking a long sip of coffee. It was lukewarm at this point. But it was almost a quarter to four now, and he was in no place to complain about free caffeine. "Should I be worried about catching the plague from you?"

She shook her head, lungs burning. "I don't know."

"That's real fucking encouraging."

"Brandy's in the cupboard on the right."

"Good shit. Now, when was the last time you saw your demon boyfriend?"

"Not my boyfriend," she said pointedly, crossing her arms. "And-- Jesus, are you really going to drink that?"

Harry looked up. He'd been in the middle of pouring a significant amount of brandy straight into his coffee. "Hey, it could be good. Like Bailey's. Now go on."

Kirsty made a face. "Around noon? One? I'm really not sure. I snapped at him and went back to sleep, and when I woke up he was gone. How’s that taste?"

"Not good." Harry had stiffened up, clearly trying very hard not to express his discomfort. He took another long sip. "I don't recommend it. Alright, so. Where d'you think he went?"

She gave him an exasperated, incredulous look. "You think I would've called you if I knew?"

"I think you're not thinking straight. Okay, better question. Where all could he have gone?"

"I don't know. I don't think he knows people around here, but he said he'd been offered a job, and, God, fuck, Harry, I don't know. What if he went back to Hell to be executed? _Christ_, I can't-- goddamn it." The panic was back with a vengeance, and now it was threatening to suffocate her. She reached across the island to the bottle of brandy, picked it up, and drank long and straight from the bottle.

"Great." Harry frowned. "Now you've contaminated all of it."

She laughed humourlessly. "Guess so. Sorry."

"Dick move, Cotton. Hell of a way to thank someone who just flew four and a half hours to see you."

She sighed and plonked the bottle back down on the countertop. "Sorry. Look, lemme get you some cash. Buy yourself some proper booze."

The corner of his mouth twitched downward, but he watched as she went to retrieve her wallet.

"What the fuck?"

Harry raised an eyebrow. "What's up?"

"I could've -- sorry, I could've sworn there was more in here." Kirsty returned with her brow furrowed, her wallet open in her hands.

"Think he stole from you?"

She blinked. "What?!"

"Your demon boyfriend. Pinless Pinfuck. How much did he take?"

Kirsty bit her lip and counted. "Not much. Twenty bucks, I think."

"Huh." Harry scratched his chin. "Weird."

Kirsty sighed. "Could be nothing. Here." She tossed a couple of crumpled bills at him.

He caught them deftly in the hand not holding his tainted coffee, grunting in approval as he counted. "Looks like there's some nice single malt in my future."

"Glad to hear it," she sighed. "I seriously don't know if he took anything. I mean, I don't care, but I just..." She sat down at the kitchen island and put her head in her hands. "I can't remember anything from last night."

Harry took another long sip of coffee, this time openly grimacing. It wasn't really growing on him. "Think he drugged you?"

"_Harry!_" She looked up, appalled.

"What?" He shrugged. "Once a demon, always a demon."

"Cenobite, Harry. Not a demon."

"Even worse. Nasty fuckers. Again, you think he drugged you?"

"No!" She stared at the counter, dismayed. "He said I hit my head."

"You believe him?" The detective's tone was skeptical.

Kirsty gave him a blistering look and reached for the bottle again. Already she was feeling warm and just a little fuzzy. She took a swig, relishing the burn up until throat protested and she found herself sputtering and coughing again.

"Hey. I'm cutting you off." Harry manoeuvred the bottle out of her grasp; she gasped for breath. She'd gotten alcohol in her airway, and it burned like fire.

"Like hell you are," she spat, her voice ragged. "Give that back."

He stared dispassionately. "I saw you yesterday. You could barely hold your head up. Maybe it's not my place, but I don't think your de-- sorry, _Cenobite _boyfriend would let me walk out of here with all my entrails still in place if he knew I let you drink yourself to death. When'd you two get so damn codependent, anyway? I thought he ruined your life, killed your family, all that good shit."

She said nothing, but her brown eyes were fire, and he knew he'd overstepped a line.

"Fine." He pushed the brandy back towards her. "All yours. Just don't let him vivisect me if he turns up and you're still hungover."

Darkly, she laughed. "I'll just play it off as the plague."

* * *

"Aw, fuck," Kirsty whispered, her tone heavy as lead. It was five in the morning and they were on the couch now, him keeping a comfortable distance from her. Neither of them could quite stand -- him, too tired to be on his feet; her, swaying too much to be stable.

Harry looked over with a frown. "What?"

"The medication I'm on. I'm not suppose-- _hic_ \--supposed t'drink."

"Who gives a shit?"

"I do. I'm fucking scared." She pulled her knees up to her chest, brown eyes wide. "Metabolises wrong an' shit."

"Goddamn it, Kirsty. Look, you clearly aren't going to be able to go searching for him now. Try to sleep it off. We'll look in the morning. My tattoos should lead us to him pretty quickly."

"You think Elliot hates me?"

Harry groaned. "I'm seriously not going to play couples' counsellor with you two. I don't trust him. But no. I don't think he hates you." The detective sighed. The dark circles under his eyes were wicked. "I think he's just a melodramatic asshole. And I think _you_ need to go to bed."

"That's very far away," she slurred. Turning her head to look at him was a whole ordeal in itself. The Scrimshaw Ring tattooed around his neck seemed to gleam in the light. "D'you tell the Harrowers?"

"Tell them what?"

"About, you know. Elliot. Being here."

Harry sucked in air through his teeth. "I told Tiffany, yeah. And Caz."

"And?"

"Caz laughed his ass off. Tiffany... doesn't like it."

"Tiff?" Kirsty frowned, perplexed. "Why not?"

"Probably because she's got some sense in her still."

Kirsty huffed. "But she-- _hic! _She saw him do the... y'know. The sacrifice thing."

Harry shook his head. "I don't know. Call her, next time. Talk to her. Christ. I'd've told you to fuck off and bug her today instead, but she's in Spain right now."

"Spain?"

"Yeah. She's been busy."

Kirsty nodded in appreciation. Tiffany had always been brilliant. She’d had real talent. Then, Kirsty couldn't get her head to stop bobbing.

"Mmkay," she conceded, closing her eyes and dragging herself onto unsteady feet. "'M gonna go throw up now."

"Goddamn it."

He watched as she made her way blindly to the bathroom. Miraculously, she made it there without incident. Harry took advantage of the empty space on the couch to stretch out, trying to ignore the sounds of gagging in the other room.

Kirsty Cotton. What a fucking mess.

* * *

He awoke very hard and very desperate. Too hard to piss, he recognised. The uniquely earthly experience began to dredge up memories of his former days, of the crackle of a radio, of the gentle clink of glass milk bottles, of the strange sort of camaraderie that came with wartime, of the weight of a firearm in his hands, of crisp military uniforms, of the deafening roar of a fighter plane…

But a strange sound, a shuffling of fabrics to his right, snapped him out of it, and with abrupt dismay, he opened his eyes and recalled where he was. He'd fallen asleep awkwardly, trying to curl up his long frame into an unobtrusive ball, and now every bone in his disgustingly human body was sore. His head felt full of cotton wool. How crude.

The old woman was peering over him curiously, her arms outstretched. Her cap had shifted on her head, revealing one very pale eye. Before he had time to let her proximity spark panic in his chest, he pulled the carton out of his pocket and handed her a singular square. That placated her. Whatever her intentions had been, she now backed off. 

The small cardboard construction quickly filled with secondhand smoke, and Elliot stifled a cough.

Wordlessly, he extricated himself from the place by her side, aching limbs protesting as he stood. Head swimming, he made his way to the alley. The early morning chill had calmed him. The rain still poured on but had let up some, and so he easily endured it as he sought his relief. Finished, he took inventory of his pockets. He still had roughly ten dollars on him, and the pack of cigs still was mostly full. Thirteen smokes left. It was a blessing that he hadn't been robbed.

He took one out, placed it between his lips, and was about to light up when he coughed. The cigarette flew out of his mouth; he caught it, pressing his other hand to his lips. There was a sharp, stabbing pain in his chest, and he hunched over, trying to regain his breath. But he hacked, the sound dry and painful, bringing tears to his eyes, and was with bleary vision and trembling hands that he put the cigarette back in its little carton, nestled up against the rest. Perhaps he ought to lay off these. They must’ve made them differently from his day. 

Or, perhaps, he realised, cold dread creeping up through his veins, he _had_ caught something from Kirsty. He had brushed off her concern as feverish foolishness and his own fatigue as the simple product of worry from the night before. But now… 

His blood seemed to freeze in the heat of his veins. Would he die not of injuries but of illness? He had always assumed his death would be a gory one if it ever came. Sickness and exposure seemed most inappropriate — most undignified, truly. By her side, he could cope with anything. Willingly would he have suffered. But here, alone… The mere thought made him most uneasy. 

But Kirsty had asked him to leave. He had been cast out, first banished from Leviathan’s sprawling domain, then from the home of his lover. 

Well. He had caused her enough damage. The sheer guilt he felt was nauseating, the sickening crack of Kirsty's head against tile yet ringing in his ears. It was for the best that he had left. He could not stand to cause her any more pain.

_No_ — no, he could not stand at all, and his legs gave out beneath him. He slid down the brick wall and hit the tarmac with a heavy thud. The impact rattled him. Another coughing fit shook his frame. Was this how Kirsty had felt? As though she were choking, asphyxiation by the betrayal of her own tortured airway? His lungs burned when he was finally able to gasp for breath once more. He would need to find a new place to stay tonight. He could not risk inflicting this on more people, especially not those already struggling under such misfortune and duress. The brutal weather would have compromised everyone’s immune system; there could be casualties, and in that case, this all too human guilt would rise up and consume him. No matter how much he missed that sweet stench of death, he could not bear it here. 

There was no beauty in that passing. 

And Kirsty had wanted him gone. Did she want him gone from the city entirely, lest his woeful brooding infect every street? Where was he to go? He had two obligations now: prevent the impending apocalypse and leave Kirsty Cotton alone. They conflicted. He needed to get back in contact with Harry D’Amour, as unlikeable as the detective was, and somehow continue to inform him of the infernal uprisings without crossing Kirsty’s path. This was going to be a challenge. He sighed and placed his head between his knees. 

Ten dollars could buy him a couple of cups of coffee now or, if he saved and scavenged, bus fare later. He would need to eat eventually, though, and that too would cut into his stolen savings. 

He was beginning to regret that impulse buy, no matter how sweet the bite of nicotine. 

Perhaps there was a phone book somewhere that he could flip through, find D’Amour’s contact information. At the library? But he’d need to spend several quarters on a payphone — and, he mused, he hadn’t seen a single payphone over the past week. What if the number listed was defunct? Or if he were unlisted? Or, most likely, if Harry simply told Elliot to fuck off? What a waste it would be. 

And he could not pursue that piercing apprenticeship in the hope of expedition to a proper position and advanced pay. Were there not certifications he would be required to attain? And he most certainly could not show up like this. He was in no fit state. Visually, he was soaked through and grimy, cheeks flushed and eyes bleary. He had no legal identification and no change of clothes. It was unhygienic. Certainly, his appearance alone would be enough to make his prospective employers gag. The thought certainly made him— 

Ah. He leaned to the side, bent double, and retched. No, he was in no fit state at all. 

And so it burned. He heaved. How did he look, former Priest of Hell, driven to his hands and knees, spattering sick in an alleyway? Just a day ago, he had had everything he could’ve asked for, given the circumstances. And now? 

It seemed in that moment that everything was well and truly falling apart. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sorry that this took so long!!!!!!! oh my goodness >:0 i can't believe this took literally forever afdslkjdsaflksaj please forgive me  
special thanks as always to BlackRoseMagick for beta work!!!!!!
> 
> wow i can't believe that last time i was all like "oh there's going to be some fluff to make up for this in the next chapter!!!!!!!" and now here we are sdflkjasdlkfdsaf i'm so sorry for betraying you all like this
> 
> hopefully the next chapter will be up later this week!
> 
> as always, thank you SO much for reading!!!!!!! seriously, i cannot thank you enough, especially those of you who have left comments and followed this far. <3 <3 <3 you are all so wonderful and i promise that i would not have kept this up past chapter 2 without you. <3 thank you all!!!!
> 
> oh, and props to the first person to name the song used (& the artist!) :p


	7. odyssey.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in the lowest deep, a lower deep.

Look, Kirsty was great and all. And she was a pretty fucking valuable asset at this point, being the only one able to wrangle her demon boyfriend and keep all hell from breaking loose in six months' time.

But god_damn_ was it hard to appreciate her at seven-thirty in the morning.

"Harry," she whispered, brown eyes wide, her face pressed far too close to his. He could still smell the alcohol on her breath -- there was no way she wasn't still drunk. "Harry, get up!"

"How the fuck are you even still functioning?" he groaned, shoving her away.

"We've got to find him, Harry," she hissed, urgency in her tone. "Come on. The sun's up."

He scowled. They'd left the lights on all night. "Go brush your teeth and then leave me alone. I'm not doing this on two and a half hours' sleep."

"I made more coffee." She was right back up in his face again. Jesus fuck. He did _not_ want to be in that close proximity to her.

"Did you at least sleep?"

She leaned back -- thank fuck -- and looked thoughtful. "Think I passed out on the floor."

"Well." He snorted. "That's something. Now go away. We can start at nine."

"What if he's hurt?"

The concern in her voice was almost tangible, and the subdued anguish in those too near eyes sent a not-quite-sympathetic pang through his heart. Despite her insistence to the contrary, it was pretty clear that Kirsty had it bad. Demon boyfriend or no, she was in quite a state of denial.

Kirsty Cotton, head over heels for the goddamn lead Cenobite. No wonder the end times were on their way.

"He's fine," Harry grumbled, shoving her aside. She careened backwards, sprawling out onto the floor. "Nine, okay? No earlier. Now go the fuck to sleep."

She whined but didn't get up. He watched as she just rolled over and closed her eyes, apparently taking his advice. If he weren't so goddamn tired, he might've found her pathetic.

Nine a.m. came and went, and neither of them stirred. It wasn't until nearly eleven that Harry woke up and struggled to his feet. Goddamn this uncomfortable couch. He rolled his neck, and it popped an unpleasantly excessive number of times.

"Hey, Kirsty. You up?"

White t-shirt and grey sweatpants practically hanging off her. Kirsty looked like little more than a bundle of clothing and a brown tangle of hair on the floor. Jesus, she was thin. He sighed and nudged her with his toe. Most of the people Harry D'Amour met with in his line of work weren't the most well-adjusted, functional members of society. But she was starting to look more and more like a straight up mess.

"Kirsty. Come on."

She whimpered but didn't move.

"Time to go find Pinfuck. Get up."

Her whining gradually turned into words. "Nngh, feel like _shit_."

Harry shook his head. "I warned you. Drunk Kirsty made some coffee this morning. It's probably bitter as all hell by now. You still want it?"

She groaned.

"I'll take that as a yes."

"Do me a favour?"

"What?"

"Hnng, no, sorry. Two favours?"

"You're pushing it."

"Turn off the lights. _Please_."

"Oh." He did so, and she immediately relaxed, tension melting away from her body. "And the second favour?"

"Kill me."

Harry snorted. "Nope. Sorry. Breakfast?"

"What time is it?" She ran a hand over her face, eyes still shut tightly. She _looked_ like shit, too, all pale and greenish, and for a moment he thought she might vomit on her own damn floor. But she just swallowed thickly and propped herself up.

Thank fuck. "Eleven-ish. Seriously, you want breakfast?"

"Not unless it's in alcohol form," she muttered. "I didn't think this headache could get any worse, and then it _did_."

"Headache?" He gave up trying to coerce her off the floor and poured himself some coffee. It was cold and so bitter he could've likened it to gasoline. Still, it was caffeine.

She shuddered, grimacing. "Told you already. Hit my head, allegedly. Concussion."

"Great." Dry sarcasm was accompanied by a judgmental sip of shitty coffee. "I'm not here to play nurse. But if you pass out, I'm dragging your ass to urgent care."

Her face contorted in pain at the thought. "Hospitals and I don't mix." For a few moments, she tried and failed to struggle to her feet. Sheepishly, she extended a hand in Harry's general direction. "Help me up?"

The detective crossed over to her, mug still in hand, and yanked her upwards. The force sent pain shooting through her shoulder and down her still-bruised side, and she staggered and almost fell back to the floor. But it soon faded, and she brushed her hair out of her face.

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it."

Gently she swayed on her feet, just enough to make Harry nervous. But her tone was resolute, and her eyes, narrowed against the dim light, were bright with determination. "I'm up. Let's go."

She pushed past him without waiting for an answer, making an adrenaline-fueled lurch towards the door.

"Christ, Kirsty," he called as she opened it. "A coat? Or at least some fucking shoes?"

* * *

With his hands pressed against his temples, he could feel that he was warm. Unnervingly warm. But still he shivered -- the frigidity of the weather had seeped deep into his core, leaving him shuddering with fever chills and honest cold. The pavement beneath him was repulsively wet and unforgivable, providing no respite from the relentless rain. He’d tried to shelter himself beneath the thin lip of an awning far above, but it did him little good. He’d long been soaked through and now was beyond drenched. He felt as though he were more water than man now. He’d become a creature of this flooded city’s ephemeral, stinking sea. Perhaps if he endured much more of this, he’d sprout gills and find himself better suited to join the ranks of the creatures lurking in the great Leviathan’s sunken domain.

How absurd. Even beneath those black waves, there was no place for him left in Hell. Certainly, if the upheaval he had left behind continued on, mounting almost exponentially in intensity, there would not be a Hell for much longer.

At the time, he had not cared what happened to the Labyrinth. Those above and those below meant nothing to him. He had grown tired and disheartened, and this had made him impassively numb. That which gave him purpose – the alluring, insistent call of the Lament Configuration – had begun to falter in its effectiveness. He was left without duty, forced to endure the company of his fellow Cenobites. Oh, he’d tried to come up with craftier methods of enticement. At his rank, the Hell Priest had been afforded an uncommon flexibility with the traditions of the Labyrinth. He’d been permitted to exercise a rather distinct creative freedom with his innovations. Some of them had been successful. The merger with the Stygian Inquisition might have been called an advancement of sorts. The Auditor had certainly played out his role neatly. But ever was he bored.

Apathetic and exhausted, he had had no qualms about indirectly inciting anarchy. He had hoped to find it amusing, watching insubordinate underlings squashed beneath the black leather boots of their Cenobitical masters.

It had only taken a word or two, spoken to a key demon or three in hushed, low tones. They had dared not disobey, and the intriguing seed of unrest had been sewn. Demonic tendency for rambunctious disobedience had made for very fertile soil indeed. How little it had taken for the idea of revolt to take root!

But he had not been able to cultivate it, to guide it, and dissatisfaction had spread through the lower classes of tormentors and infernal creatures like an invasive weed, alight with organic persistence. Now it was out of control.

He had never expected it to go this far. The demonic masses were meant to be most easily and brutally dismembered, their violent cause dismantled within a fortnight of its eruption. No, he hadn’t prepared for this.

Truly, he’d just wanted to watch them dance.

But something had gone wrong. And now the dissent had evolved into proper, tumultuous discord, and it was apparently threatening to overwhelm the land of the living.

He could hear the faint hiss of tires rolling through standing water out in the street. He let his hands fall from his temples and pulled his coat tighter around himself, coughing.

Well, hadn’t he fucked up.

* * *

So Kirsty could wrangle Elliot into docile domesticity, fine, but it still did not explain in the slightest how Harry had found himself tasked with wrangling <i>Kirsty</i>, who was just as stubborn as she was ill. Harry thought, he'd been saddled with the harder job here. He was starting to think he'd take demons over her defiance any day.

It'd taken a solid fifteen minutes to get her back into her apartment and bundled up in a coat, and then it'd taken another five to convince her that, yes, she really did need shoes. Frantic concern for the former Cenobite might've made her hasty, sure, but Harry was beginning to find this ridiculous. His patience was far from infinite, and her petulance was grating.

It didn't help that his tattoos were writhing on his skin. None of them screamed 'dramatic dumbfuck demon boyfriend in your area!' but this city was too haunted to keep his inked skin from crawling. There were ghosts around this apartment complex, and they'd taken a vested interest in his and Kirsty's squabbling. So now he could feel that they had an audience, and the undead weren’t the politest bunch.

“Kirsty,” he growled, back pressed up against the door. “Would you just eat the fucking apple?”

He’d pressed the issue of breakfast one last time, she’d let it slip that she hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning, and now he had to get on her case again. The whole thing felt like a bad sitcom. Elliot must’ve had the patience of a saint to be willing to contend with her. Oh, the fucking irony.

He’d used himself to barricade the door. More or less it kept her from trying to run out again.

“Can we please just leave?”

“What did I tell you? You pass out on me--”

“Ugh. Hospital. Right. Can I just bring it with? Will you leave me alone then?”

He massaged at his temples. Her headache was rapidly becoming contagious. “Fine. Fuck it. Come on. The sooner we find him, the sooner I get to get out of here.”

* * *

Elliot had not the strength to move himself further. He had dragged himself further down the lonely alleyway, almost to the other end, hoping to seek out some better shelter, but his efforts had been futile. The architecture of this city was unfriendly, and no refuge from the relentless rain awaited him. He supposed it must’ve been a deliberate design choice – how cruel humanity had become, turning against itself.

The human capacity for callous, unfeeling savagery was something Elliot knew all too well. Wartime had shown him thus, burning horrors into his mind that he would never forget. The inherent frailty of humans, however, had slipped his mind almost completely. It caught him off guard when his legs nearly buckled beneath him again, and he just barely managed to catch himself enough to slump against the alley’s brick wall.

It was impressive, really, how quickly this cold and rain had drained that fragile human form of its energy. It had been so long since he had been human; the forgotten feeling was unnerving. He’d had a taste of it the night before, guiding Kirsty home, but now the full parasitical weight of inclemency descended upon him, and it left him all but paralysed.

And so, there was little he could do but listen. He’d already tuned his ears to the street, but now he cast his attention farther. Faintly, he could pick up the sounds of a scuffle of some sort, reverberating from the squalid street he had left behind. There was the shuffling and splashing of feet against wet pavement, a shout, and a clatter as something metal fell to the ground.

Elliot simply listened. If it were danger, he decided, he did not care. He merely observed. What else could be done?

He was so very, very tired, after all.

* * *

She listed across the rain-slick sidewalk, fluttering from one edge of the concrete to the other. It was midday, but the weather had driven all but an intrepid few pedestrians off the streets. It left ample space for Kirsty’s dogged stumbling, determination and lack of coordination driving her onward in something that could not even generously be called a straight line.

“You trying to step in every puddle?” Harry joked.

She shot him a cross look. “Not intentionally.”

He turned his coat collar up against the wind. It was a blustery day, and the wind couldn’t seem to make up its mind which way to blow. Rain lashed at them from all sides, and Harry realised that even if Kirsty had owned and brought and umbrella with her,it would’ve turned itself inside out by now. No use in buying one now, then.

Oh, wait. The wind…?

“Kirsty,” he called, the smirk audible in his voice. “Is the wind actually blowing you away?”

“No!” she yelled and tilted right off a curb and into the street.

“Aw, Jesus, Kirst.” Harry rushed over and dragged her back onto the pavement. She _was _being unbalanced by the wind – she was so light and unsteady that she could not fight against it. “Here, come on,” he said and grabbed her wrist. Even drenched in the cold of the rain, her skin was warm. “Stick with me.”

She nodded. “Anything yet?” None of his tattoos were visible, save for a few on his hands, tendrils of ink peeking out from under the cuffs of his jacket.

“Well,” he admitted, “there’s some weird shit going on in this city. Forget Hell breaking through – the Veil here is weakening, and the ghosts are losing their shit over it. But as far as Pinhead goes? Nothing so far.” He scoffed. “In my defence, Caz never thought a Cenobite GPS tracker would be necessary.”

“Could you just call him Elliot?”

“Why? That makes him sound human.” Whoever heard of a demon called Elliot?”

She bit her lip. “He _is_ human. That was his name… before.”

“Before?” _Oh_. He loosened his grip on her wrist – not enough to let her go and leave her free to totter off into the street again, but enough that he could hardly feel the fever burn of her pale flesh against his. “Right.”

“Still nothing?”

He shook his head. “Nothing. But if he _is_ completely human like you said, I’m not sure if I’ll even be able to pick him up.”

“Couldn’t you? Before? The other day, in the diner...” She slowed in her reverie, eyes half-closed in thought, and he tugged her along. “I watched that sigil on your arm move.”

“Lots of sigils on my arms, Kirsty. You’re going to have to be more specific.”

She huffed. “Well, I don’t know! Didn’t you sense him?”

Harry had, hadn’t he? But he’d ignored it. He’d just chalked it up to the sheer number of undead in this town. Whether by coincidence or clever occultists, the foundations for this city had been built on a crossroads, and the swell of the living population here meant that there were even more departed. He was grateful that he couldn’t hear them; the wailing and caterwauling and moaning would be unbearable, and the dead always had requests for the living. It was exhausting, really. He had that on good authority.

“Sorry. This isn’t really within my pay grade, hunting folks down. The supernatural usually just finds me.”

She snorted. “You’re a detective, Harry! Don’t tell me your business model is based on chance.”

“It’s not the most lucrative business, is it? Seriously, Kirsty, I’m out a thousand bucks for you. I’m missing a proper case in Arizona for your sake.”

Kirsty sniffled, and he turned to look at her. There was something dangerously close to pained regret etched on her face. Despite their banter, she looked awful, all dark circles, red-rimmed eyes, and pale, hollow cheeks. She was wavering, fatigue trying to bring her down. But he’d be damned if Kirsty wasn’t a fighter, and he watched as the remorse in her eyes hardened to resolution. “Better make it worth your while, then.”

“We can take a break, you know. Probably should.” Harry frowned.

She shook her head, cringing. “We have to find him.”

“Sure.” A car sped past them, throwing up droplets of grey rainwater. “But I’m not carrying you if you pass out on me.”

“We _have_ to find him.”

Harry sighed and squeezed her wrist. He could feel her pulse. It was quick. “Look, we need to try a different strategy. And you need food. You can’t just run on caffeine and willpower forever.”

“But what if he--”

“Nope.” He cut her off. “Quit your catastrophising. Know of any good diners around here?”

She wriggled out of his grasp and pulled the apple out of her pocket. “Look, I’ll be fine.”

Baffled, he frowned. “You do know you actually have to _eat_ that, right?”

“Kind of still too hungover to eat,” she admitted. “But I promise I will as soon as-- oh.”

The apple tumbled out of her hand and rolled off the curb and down the street. They stopped and turned to watch in silence as it rolled away, fading into a little red dot almost a block away until it finally veered and got caught in a gutter.

“So much for that.”

“Yeah.” Kirsty blinked. “Sorry, I… Yeah, okay. Fine. Your way.”

“Good girl.”

They’d walked a little more than two miles out from the apartment, marking the usual diner out of the question. This part of town was more upscale, all nice cafes and fancy restaurants. They stuck out like a sore thumb, Kirsty in her sweatpants and Harry looking a rumpled, travel-worn mess. The city had developed the way most cities do, with odd pockets of good and bad neighbourhoods nestled up against each other, deteriorating and gentrifying with alarming speed from block to block. Kirsty hadn’t lived here long – she hadn’t lived _anywhere_ long, not since Trevor – even clear-headed she would’ve found it disorienting. The urban tapestry was not a well-planned one, being viewed through vision speckled grey with exhaustion and the incessant downpour of rain made it ever more confusing. Kirsty reached out and grabbed onto Harry’s sleeve. If he left her now she would be hopelessly lost.

He pulled her into the next cafe they passed – a nice, independent one with handwritten chalkboard menus on the walls advertising seven dollar special drinks. How very hipster. She gasped and swayed at the sudden relief from the rain, and he hastily took her shoulders to steady her.

“Thanks,” she breathed, ducking her head and stifling a cough. It hurt; her chest burned.

The barista eyed them with suspicion and poorly-masked revulsion, but her voice was all customer service smiles. “What can I get for you two?”

Harry scanned the menu. No real food here, just pastries. Damn. “Uh, a 16oz red eye and...” He glanced at Kirsty. “Fuck it. 16oz hot chocolate.”

“With four shots of espresso,” Kirsty added. Her eyes were half-closed, but she grinned.

“Goddamn it. Didn’t you drink all that coffee earlier?”

“Yeah, and I want more. Four shots.”

He sighed. “Fine, whatever. Pay up.”

“That’ll be $12.86. Can I get a name for that?” the barista asked.

“Yeah. Harry.”

Kirsty managed to get out and set a twenty on the counter, but immediately after fumbled with her wallet and dropped it. She stared at it forlornly as it hit the floor and bounced, she was then was struck by a fit of coughing and ducked her head into the crook of her arm before she could retrieve it. Harry shook his head at her and picked up the wallet.

The barista regarded the money with open disgust. With the tip of one very long acrylic fingernail, she dragged it across the counter and over to the cash register. “$7.14 is your change.”

Seventy-five cents for each shot of espresso? Fucking cities.

Harry took the change and pocketed it, casting a look at Kirsty. She was still coughing. “I don’t know why I let you outside.”

The barista nodded in agreement and sneered. Her tone, however, was all fake cheer. “That should be out in just a moment for you! Next?”

“Come on.” Harry grabbed at Kirsty’s arm and dragged her over to a table. There wasn’t much seating here, given the size of the place, but they managed to score a corner to themselves.

Kirsty moaned and slumped in her chair, wheezing. “So, Mr. D’Amour, what’s your – _hack_ – new strategy?”

“I’ve half a mind to just drag you back home.” He tossed her wallet back on the table. “Here.”

“Thanks. You’re not going to do that, though.”

“Nope. Something tells me you won’t rest until you find him, and I’m not going to let you wander around alone.”

She groaned and ran a hand over her face, wiping away rainwater. “So, what’s the plan?”

“Well, we can’t just keep trying to canvass the whole city. That’s ridiculous.”

Kirsty pressed her fingertips to her temples. “So _what’s_ the _plan?_”

“We look in the most likely places. Save some time. Where’d you summon him?”

“Summon-- what? I didn’t summon him.”

“Okay, then how the hell’d he get here?”

“I… don’t know. I never asked. I just… found him.”

He blinked in disbelief. “Found him?”

“Yeah. We ran into each other on the street one night.”

“You _what?” _Harry opened his mouth to protest but was cut off but an all-too-pleasant call from across the cafe. “Shit, that’s our order. Hang on.”

He returned with a takeaway cup in each hand. Kirsty had fallen forward, bent so that her forehead rested against the table. There was something sticky about the faux-wood surface. She was far too tired to care.

“So,” he said, setting the drink before her. “You _found_ him. Where?”

She struggled upright and shot him a look. His eyes were still wide with disbelief. “I don’t remember. I took a wrong turn. Got lost.”

“Lost?!” He almost spat out his coffee.

“Yeah. Lost.”

“But you live here!”

“Yeah,” she deadpanned, “and I got lost.”

He sighed, clearly dubious of her claims. “This is excruciating.”  
“Ughh,” she groaned. “You’re telling me. My head is killing me.” She pressed the paper cup up to her cheek, trying to soak up its warmth. It wasn’t much, but immediately it soothed her, the heat providing some distraction from the throbbing ache, and she found herself closing her eyes.  
“Hey. Hey, Earth to Kirsty.”

She frowned and tried to ignore him. The cup against her face was rapidly growing cold; she’d leached all the warmth from it.

"_Leech." Eyes still closed; she gave him a small smile. "That's okay. You can have some of my warmth. I've got plenty to spare."_

He ruffled her hair. "Your generosity is unprecedented, Kirsty."

How was he faring, trapped out in the freezing rain like this? There was no way he’d left and found someone else to live with yet, and unless he’d somehow returned to the Labyrinth, he would be out there…

Head swimming, she set the cup back down on the table and opened her eyes.

“Kirsty, seriously--” Harry had been saying, the space between his brows pinched tight with annoyance. “Oh, good. You’re finally decided to listen. As I was saying--”

“We need to find him. Now.” She cut him off, fevered fire blazing in those brown eyes.

“Yeah, I know that, Kirst.” Harry wasn’t buying it. “But unless you’ve somehow recalled _where_ you two ‘found’ each other, we’re going to have to just guess.”  
She sucked in a shaky breath. “I think… Must’ve been within a quarter mile of where the red line ends, I think.”

“Got any street names?”

“Not unless you can show me a map. Directions aren’t my strong suit.”

He sighed. All Harry really wanted was to go back to sleep, buy that bottle of whisky, drink half, and sleep some more. He took another sip of his coffee – black, it was a poor and bitter substitute, no matter how expensive it had been.

“Alright,” he said. “At least it’s a start. Ready?”

Kirsty nodded and took a sip of her drink. It was still a bit more than tepid and sweet than she’d anticipated. At least the sugar meant calories. Good, so long as she could keep them down. Her hands had picked up a faint tremor since waking. Maybe this would dispel it.

She nodded again. “It’s a bit of a long walk.”

“Then let’s go.”

There had been urgency in his words, and it spurred her to stand. She moved too quickly, and immediately stumbled, hot chocolate sloshing from the pinprick opening of the lid and onto her coat. The world greyed at the edges, peripherals turned to static, and quite suddenly she was breathless. For a few frightening seconds, there was nothing but the pounding in her head and a cold, dreadful numbness. Harry rushed to her side, more instinct than compassion.

She had caught herself on the edge of the table. Now, she clutched tight to its edge as sensation faded back into focus. If that reflex hadn’t kicked in, she’d have fallen against him heavily. “I’m sorry,” she breathed, fighting back another coughing fit.

“It’s fine,” he said, shaking his head. “How about we take a cab?”

* * *

Even after four shots of espresso, she’d fallen asleep during the cab ride there. The driver wasn’t all too pleased about their vague directions and consequently refused to make polite conversation, so Harry was stuck hyper-aware of Kirsty’s head lolling on his shoulder. Her forehead wound up nuzzled against his neck. He could feel that she was still warm, although far from dangerously so.

Christ. He wasn’t a doctor. This didn’t feel right, being here like this. Sigils were crawling along his skin. Could the spirits here tell that she was still ailing, and he was way out of his depth? Were they mocking him?

He had to admit that even like this she was beautiful. It didn’t matter that her hair was a mess, frizzy and matted in equal measures, nor that there was a thin trail of drool making its way out of the corner of her mouth. There was a certain delicacy to her features, sharpness and softness paired in equal measure, a genetic grace incapable of being masked by any blight.

He wasn’t interested, of course. But he couldn’t be faulted for looking.

Rain pattered against the faintly tinted windowpanes and they rode along. It was pleasant enough, Harry decided, when you weren’t out in the midst of it. Very atmospheric. There was something about a city in the rain that stirred up some sort of vaguely melancholy romanticism – languor tinged with some subdued yearning.

Harry D’Amour belonged in a city just as surely as a bird did in a tree. Maybe not this city, but it sure beat the Arizona desert. Sure, he wasn’t all too pleased about being damp and cold and broke as hell, but the familiarity wasn’t unwelcome. He could appreciate this.

He watched, peering into the gloom, looking for some glimpse of a black trench coat and bald head.

Long eyelashes fluttered against pale cheeks, and he felt her shift against him.

“Hey.” He nudged her. “Get up. We’re almost here.”

She coughed weakly against him. He made a mental note to burn this coat later.

“C’mon. You gotta pay. Tip the nice man.”

Reluctantly, she hoisted herself upright. Eyes still shut, she felt for her wallet in her pocket, retrieved it, and pulled out a bill at random.

“Not quite,” he chuckled. She opened one eye – she’d pulled out a single.

She gave a smile and got out the right amount. The amusement was short-lived, though, and he watched tension creep back into her limbs.

“Do you think… Do you think we’ll find him?”

He said nothing. He didn’t have an answer.

Neither did she.

* * *

Long ago had he lost track of time. The sky was a dreary, amaranthine grey, and had been ever since the last few reddish slivers of sunrise had faded away. He was not sure of the time, but hours had passed – of that he was certain. And with each passing moment, his shivering had become more violent and his thoughts ever bleaker.

He’d gone through such lengths to die. The box had not been easy to find. It had had such a cost — in more ways than one. For all its price, it had been worth it, in that brief instant when he no longer was, flesh rendered from muscle in an exquisite, agonizing farewell. He had felt something, had cried out. It had been so long since he had felt anything.

Perhaps one could argue that he had never truly died: he had done no more than change his state, moving from one misery to the next. It was fitting, in a way. Death would have been too kind a mercy for him. He was well aware of this. Life had conspired to remind him of his artificial immortality at every turn. The perpetuity of his suffering was no more than what he deserved. It did not keep him from longing for it. Nothingness and numbness were entirely separate experiences. So long he had floated adrift in his own numbness, bound to heed Summoner’s call for all eternity, but free to cast aside his own emotions. He could feel nothing for so long.

And now, once more, he found himself inundated with emotions, trapped under the weight of them. Life had been his punishment, his prison. He supposed it always had been. And now, more than ever, he ached for nothingness. To be nothing. The sweet embrace of the void beckoned eternal — so, so near, and yet impossibly distant. How he yearned to become nothing, truly nothing!

Oh, but he would not be able to appreciate the nothingness when it descended upon him. There would be nothing left of him to be grateful for that final release. Still, it was preferable. It hurt, this limbo state of forced numbness. There was far too much existing involved, far too much pain to repress. He heaved, as though trying to cough up whatever life remained left in him, but nothing came.

Convulsing, he waited. Death soon would descend on that dark alleyway, he knew. It had to.

If there were any mercy left in the grand design of this world for him, it would.

* * *

She sighed.

Harry could feel the sigh better than he could hear it. Kirsty had taken to leaning against him once more, and every chatter of her teeth and laboured breath shuddered through him.

“Look, Kirsty, we’ve been going in circles for the past hour.”

The cab driver had dropped them off a quarter mile from the end of the red line, as instructed, and they’d paced there and back on foot multiple times. With every lap, his motivation dwindled. Even his tattoos had stilled, as though the magic in them was too exhausted to react further to this haunted urban maze. He’d long wondered if a respite from their warnings might be a relief. Instead, he found it unbearable.

Silently, Harry had begun to curse the city planners. He had been enamoured once with the city Now, he loathed it.

The simple grid of streets had begun to deteriorate here, branching off into innumerable back streets and thoroughfares. Tiny, flooded one-way roads butted up against massive highways. It made the rest of the city look positively organized. If he had to guess, this section had been an afterthought – a tangled knot of roads where two independent segments of metropolis meshed together. It was dizzying. The whole place felt like a mistake, an error in space-time. No wonder it was such a shithole. Maybe, he thought, it had been purposefully forgotten.

No wonder Kirsty had taken a wrong turn the other night.

While his comprehension flourished, fed by the eerie liminality of these disorienting few blocks, his patience withered. Kirsty must have felt the same, judging by that sigh.

“An hour, Kirst,” he repeated.

She bit her lip. She had a hand wound firmly in the fabric of his coat, and he felt the tug as her fist clenched.

“_Kirst_.” He exhaled through his nose. His shoes, although not completely impractical, were not meant for this kind of walking, and they had begun to chafe. Harry dreaded the idea of taking them off and assessing the damage. There’d be blisters at the very least, he was sure of it. Blood at the worst.

Kirsty stifled a cough. “Half an hour more,” she whispered. Her voice caught in her throat, a hoarse and ragged plea. “_Please._”

She’d only bargained for thirty minutes longer. That burning flame of determination of hers was now a flickering ember, resolve paling like her skin. He couldn’t tell if there were tears building in her half-lidded eyes. He didn’t think he could handle it if there were.

He glanced away from her and into the interminable rain. Disgust rose in him like bile. Fuck this city. Fuck Elliot fucking Steele. And fuck Kirsty, too, for Harry knew he could not tell her no.

“Not one damn second more,” he conceded.

She sagged against him, nodding. Her lips moved, face pressed against his shoulder. A battered van careened past, flying far too fast for the weather, and her words were lost in the roar of tires and engine noise.

Still, he knew their meaning.

_Thank you._

* * *

Something vaguely approaching boredom had begun to set in.

The acute suicidality had begun to dull, the emotion exhausting and unsustainable. Slowly it was waning, receding back into perpetual disenchantment with life, that removed melancholy he had known for so long. Now he stared at the wall before him, rain-slick pockmarked brick morphing and melting in an almost entertaining way. He’d wanted for a distraction, something tangible to take away from the burning cold and the fatigue which plagued him so relentlessly, and his mind had produced one. It had become too difficult now to focus on the vast library of magic and demonic academia he’d mentally accrued over the century, and silent screaming of his all-too-human skin made proper mediation impossible. Still, the twisting and roiling of the brick served as ample entertainment, moderately amusing if mindless.

More voices called out from the street; in tongues he did not bother to understand. Detached, he let them wash over him and fade, even as snatches of a faintly familiar song wafted through the rain-dense air.

_You me knows what me you wants…_

Was this a hallucination? Yet another trick of the idle, self-immolating mind? He could not tell.

He sighed, thought very hard about pulling his coat tighter around himself, and did not move.

He was not sure for how long he watched this wall, grout lines making mandalas in rain. He was even less certain of when he had closed his eyes, and completely unsure of whether he had fallen asleep.

But he was suddenly quite aware that he could not feel his fingers and that the latent self-loathing had begun to creep back in, descending like a weight from the inside out. He leaned into it, imagining that the comfortable dismay was radiating warmth as well as hopelessness, and let himself slip into that hypnagogic half-state between fever dreams and all too brutal reality. For all his carefully cultivated soulless apathy towards agony, all due to the Cenobitical fetishization of glibly enduring pain, he was certainly able to feel discomfort.

When next he became conscious, it was with a wave of this discomfort. His excommunication from the labyrinth’s ranks had stripped him of much; his tolerance for unpleasantness and his ability to completely dissociate from himself had suffered since his return to Earth. This discomfort gnawed at him, the pain a blunted but disorienting hunger. To be human was to be distracted.

Still, he was perceptive. Footsteps awoke him, a dull, quick clacking of hard soles on pavement.

His reaction would’ve surprised him, if he were inclined to be surprised; adrenaline rushed through his veins in a most involuntarily way, fingertips tingling as hot blood rushed back into them. He shivered and opened one eye.

No.

There, before him, an apparition.

The hallucinations have become cruel, he mused, and ducked his head. He could not bear the sight.

And then arms, cold and dripping wet, were around him.

A flurry of gentle touches, of desperate grasping at drenched cloth and fever-pained skin, of the weight against him and the sharpness of her breath as she sobbed, and with her body against him he could no longer deny it.

She was there.

* * *

It had caught Harry off guard. One moment, Kirsty was leaning against him heavily as they trudged through the downpour. The next, the weight of her was gone.

He’d been just about to suggest again that they turn back. It was growing dark, and his tattoos were crawling across his skin. The ink’s movement had left him with a nasty mixture of unease and relief – he’d thought their magic had burned out from overexposure to this occult-ridden city. He’d just been planning to confront Caz about the matter when they’d suddenly kicked back into overdrive. He barely had time to process the wave of nervous energy that that sent over him, ghoulish, grim possibilities just beginning to congeal in his head.

His sigils had screamed.

And Kirsty had gone.

Panic rushed him then, cold sweat erupting on his rain-soaked skin, pooling rapidly in the small of his back. He could feel the blood rushing to his limbs as he whirled around, eyes desperately seeking Kirsty. His heart hammered against his sternum; each beat contained a lifetime. His right thumb and forefinger itched for the pistol tucked in his waistband.

_Shit. Shit. Shit._ He fumbled for it, fingertips making sweet contact with metal, before thinking better of it and dropping his hand.

His tongue and lips had just begun to form the velar consonant of her name when he spotted her, twenty yards away, crouched low in the shadows of a side street.

Crouched low over a figure, he realized, and with a jolt, he ran after her.

* * *

She still remembered the first time she’d seen him — truly seen him, seen him for what he was and not that looming darkness that so gently threatened. She had _seen_ him, yes, and felt a fraction of his pain. There had been a stern sort of melancholy in the eyes of that sepia-toned picture in Dr. Channard’s home, and the weight of that emotion had made her mouth fall open ever so slightly, jaw slack at the sight. She had never known anyone to radiate such sorrow, even in a photograph. Kirsty hadn’t been able to do anything more than stare. It had been captivating, in a morbid sort of way. And so, she had made the decision to take the picture long before she recognized him.

But then… upon seeing him once more… What had it been? The slope of the jaw? The outward curve of the ears, spotted in the corner of her blurry vision? No, it had been something deeper than that that had turned recognition in her from across the street. The hollowness of the eyes. Blue or black, they remained empty. The realization had turned her blood cold in her veins, and she had bolted.

That same melancholy greeted her now. His stare, though bright with fever, was blank. He looked beyond her — through her — as though she were not really there. She wondered, briefly, if he were there at all.

She took his face in her hands. He stiffened at her touch, unsure whether he should lean into the coolness of her fingertips or push away. His body was at war with itself. So was hers. Quickly, the adrenaline was wearing off.

_We’ve found him_, her system seemed to say. _The crisis is over._

The sudden crush of overexertion brought her well and truly to her knees. She couldn’t catch herself as her legs gave out from under her, and bursts of sharp pain shot through her as her kneecaps cracked against the pavement. She gasped and swayed forward. Little black spots had begun to blossom at the edges of her vision. She dropped her hands, trying to grab at anything else steady herself. But there was nothing but him to hold.

There had never been anything but him, she realized. For better or for worse, their lives were eternally intertwined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well! this was far, far overdue. i hope it was worth the wait -- i'm so sorry for how long that took!!!!! next chapter will absolutely not take that long. if you're still reading, please forgive me?


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